e nonsense I spoke?
What know we of angels? I meant it in joke,
I meant it in joke;
What know we of angels? I meant it in joke."

When, in his rich, vibrating notes, he had sung the two verses, all the
ladies rewarded him by clapping their hands, which was an exceedingly
wrong thing to do, considering that they formed no part of the audience.
Then _Damon_ says,

"To-day Demaetus gives a rural treat,
And I once more my chosen friends must meet:
Farewell, sweet damsel, and remember this,
Dull repetition deadens all our bliss."

And Laura sadly answers,

"Where baleful cypress forms a gloomy shade,
And yelling spectres haunt the dreary glade,
Unknown to all, my lonesome steps I'll bend,
There weep my suff'rings, and my fate attend."

Here Laura ought to sing the song "Vain is every fond endeavor;" but
Lady Adela said to the violinist,

"No, never mind, Syb; no one wants to hear _me_ sing, until the
necessity of the case arises. Let's get on to the feast; I think that
will be very popular; for we must have lots of shepherds and
shepherdesses; and the people will be delighted to recognize their
friends. Where's your sketch, Rose? I would have groups round each of
the willows, and occasional figures coming backwards and forwards
through those rhododendrons."

"You must leave the principal performers plenty of stage," Lionel Moore
interposed, laughing. "You mustn't hem us in with supers, however
picturesque their dress may be."

And so they went on discussing their arrangements, while the refulgent
day was everywhere declaring itself, though as yet no sound of the
far-off world could reach this isolated garden. Nor was there any direct
sunshine falling into it; but a beautiful warmth of color now shone on
the young green of the elms and chestnuts and hawthorns, and on one or
two tall-branching, trembling poplars just coming into leaf; while the
tulip-beds--the stars, the crescents, the ovals, and squares--were each
a mass of brilliant vermilion, of rose, of pale lemon, of crimson and
orange, or clearest gold. This new-found dawn seemed wholly to belong to
the birds. Perhaps it was their universal chirping and carolling that
concealed the distant echo of the highways; for surely the heavily-laden
wains were now making in for Covent Garden? At all events there was
nothing here but this continuous bird-clamor and the voices of these
modern nymphs and swains as they went t