Roy

That clear and mild evening, fluted as April by a thrush in the
lilacs, Prosper and the Countess walked together on the terrace. A
guard or two, pike in hand, lounged by the balustrade; the deer-hound,
with his muzzle between his paws, twitched his ears or woke to snap at
a fly: it seemed as if the earth, sure of the sun at last, left her
conning tower with a happy sigh. It turned the Countess to a tender
mood, where she suffered herself to be played upon by the season--
L'ora del tempo e la dolce stagione. The spring whimpered in
her blood. Prosper felt her sighing as she leaned on his arm, and made
stress to amuse her, for sighs always seemed to him unhealthy. He set
himself to be humorous, sang, chattered, told anecdotes, and succeeded
in infecting himself first and the lady afterwards. She laughed in
spite of herself, then with a good will. They both laughed together,
so that the guards nudged each other. One prophesied a match of it.

"And no bad thing for High March if it were so," said the other, "and
we with a man at the top. I never knew a greater-hearted lord. He is
voiced like a peal of bells in a frolic."

"He's a trumpet in a charge home."

"He's first in."

"Fights like a demon."

"Snuffs blood before 'tis out of the skin."

"Ah, a great gentleman!"

"What would his age be?"

"Five-and-twenty, not an ounce more. So ho! What's this on the road?"