Page:Tales of John Oliver Hobbes.djvu/125

 quite—quite that way. She wouldn't like to. You see it is rather—you know—rather—"

"Oh, yes, of course, it is rather—"

"It is very like Shelley, in fact."

"One can't help thinking," said George, after another long pause, "that Shelley knew what he was writing about. It's awfully true, what he says."

"Is it?" said Grace, playing Gounod's accompaniment very softly to fill the gaps in the conversation.

"Well, isn't it?"

"I don't know. It doesn't sound much like Godfrey, for instance."

"Oh! &hellip; Godfrey. Poor dear old Godfrey—hardly! He's an awfully good sort, but really—you know—he's got no more poetry about him than—than a whale."

"You shall not make me laugh!" and then she began a series of rather musical giggles. George noticed that she had a dimple in her cheek.

"You must admit it's the truth," he said; "he is a stick, isn't he? Bless him!"

"How can you? He's a kind, excellent husband—mama says so." At this she laughed till the tears came. A cold-blooded observer would have said she was inclined to be hysterical.

"I like to see a man with some passion about him," said George.

"What is passion, really?" said Grace. "I always associate it with bad temper." Her expression was that of a mild-eyed saint—in a glass window. Saints in real life are made of sterner stuff.