The heavy butler essayed to speak, but the tremendous blow and the
baronet's gesture choked him. At the door he made another effort which
shook the rolls of his loose skin pitiably. An impatient signal sent him
out dumb,--and Raynham was quit of the one believer in the Great Shaddock
dogma.

CHAPTER XXXIV

It was the month of July. The Solent ran up green waves before a
full-blowing South-wester. Gay little yachts bounded out like foam, and
flashed their sails, light as sea-nymphs. A crown of deep Summer blue
topped the flying mountains of cloud.

By an open window that looked on the brine through nodding roses, our
young bridal pair were at breakfast, regaling worthily, both of them. Had
the Scientific Humanist observed them, he could not have contested the
fact, that as a couple who had set up to be father and mother of Britons,
they were doing their duty. Files of egg-cups with disintegrated shells
bore witness to it, and they were still at work, hardly talking from
rapidity of exercise. Both were dressed for an expedition. She had her
bonnet on, and he his yachting-hat. His sleeves were turned over at the
wrists, and her gown showed its lining on her lap. At times a chance word
might spring a laugh, but eating was the business of the hour, as I would
have you to know it always will be where Cupid is in earnest. Tribute
flowed in to them from the subject land. Neglected lies Love's
penny-whistle on which they played so prettily and charmed the spheres to
hear them. What do they care for the spheres, who have one another? Come,
eggs! come, bread and butter! come, tea with sugar in it and milk! and
welcome, the jolly hours. That is a fair interpretation of the music in
them just now. Yonder instrument was good only for the overture. After
all, what finer aspiration can lovers have, than to be free man and woman
in the heart of plenty? And is it not a glorious level to have attained?
Ah, wretched Scientific Humanist! not to be by and mark the admirable
sight of these young creatures feeding. It would have been a spell to
exorcise the Manichee, methinks.

The mighty performance came to an end, and then, with a flourish of his
table-napkin, husband stood over wife, who met him on the confident
budding of her mouth. The poetry of mortals is their daily prose. Is it
not a glorious level to have attained? A short, quick-blooded kiss,
radiant, fresh, and honest as Aurora, and then Richard says without lack
of chee