"This is the night when Diana kisses Endymion," said Eustace dreamily, "the antique deities which we all deny are still on earth in Italy. They are not visible, nor will they ever be so save to the eye of faith alone. Even then they are doubtful of revealing themselves to a generation who would put them under the microscope and on the dissecting table. But although we try hard to disbelieve in their existence, the spell of their beauty is sometimes too strong, and I never go anywhere among these hills without a secret hope of finding Pan asleep at noontide in the ilex shade, or of seeing the laughing face of a Dryad framed in tamarisk leaves." "And your hope is never realised," said Lady Errington sadly; "that is so true of our modern desires." "Because we always desire the impossible," replied Eustace, clasping his hands over his knees while the chill moonlight fell on his massive face, "and expect to find it in crowded cities under the glare of gaslight, instead of in these magic solitudes where the moon shines on haunted ground." "But is it possible to reconcile man and Nature?" "According to Matthew Arnold, yes." "What a romantic way you have of looking at things, Mr. Gartney," remarked Victoria with some impatience. "If everyone took your view of life, I'm afraid the world would not get on." "It's all humbug," cried Otterburn, who agreed in every way with Miss Sheldon, "that is, you know, not quite sensible." "I daresay it is not--in a worldly sense," said Eustace bitterly, "but then you see I don't look at everything from a purely utilitarian point of view." "I do" interposed Guy in his hearty British voice, "it's the only way to get one's comforts in life. And one's comforts suggest smoking." Otterburn assented with avidity, for they had been sitting with cigarettes for some time, but never lighted up, and even Eustace departed so much from his poetic dreamings as to accept the soothing weed. "You don't practise what you preach, Mr. Gurney," said Lady Errington, smiling. "How many of us do?" asked Gartney complacently. "I'm afraid we talk a lot and do nothing, now-a-days. It's the disease of the latter end of the nineteenth century." "Oh, everything's very jolly," said Otterburn, who resembled Mark Tapley in his disposition. "Who was it said that this was the best of all possible worlds?" "Voltaire! But by that it was not his intention to infer he didn't yearn after some better world." "Heaven!" "I don't think that was in M. Arouet's line." "I'm afraid it isn't in any of our lines." "What a rude remark," said Lady Errington severely. "This conversation is becoming so atheistical that I must ask Mr. Gartney to carry out his promise and play the Moonlight Sonata. It may inspire us with higher thoughts." "The Como Moonlight Sonata--it will be a local hit." "What nonsense you do talk, Macjean," said Eustace rising to his feet and throwing his cigarette into the water, "you're like that man in the Merchant of Venice."