rt. It is of Daphnis and Chloe
that Philemon and Baucis are made. The old age of which we speak,
evening resembling morning, was evidently reserved for Gwynplaine and
Dea. In the meantime they were young.

Ursus looked on this love as a doctor examines his case. He had what was
in those days termed a hippocratical expression of face. He fixed his
sagacious eyes on Dea, fragile and pale, and growled out, "It is lucky
that she is happy." At other times he said, "She is lucky for her
health's sake." He shook his head, and at times read attentively a
portion treating of heart-disease in Aviccunas, translated by Vossiscus
Fortunatus, Louvain, 1650, an old worm-eaten book of his.

Dea, when fatigued, suffered from perspirations and drowsiness, and took
a daily _siesta_, as we have already seen. One day, while she was lying
asleep on the bearskin, Gwynplaine was out, and Ursus bent down softly
and applied his ear to Dea's heart. He seemed to listen for a few
minutes, and then stood up, murmuring, "She must not have any shock. It
would find out the weak place."

The crowd continued to flock to the performance of "Chaos Vanquished."
The success of the Laughing Man seemed inexhaustible. Every one rushed
to see him; no longer from Southwark only, but even from other parts of
London. The general public began to mingle with the usual audience,
which no longer consisted of sailors and drivers only; in the opinion of
Master Nicless, who was well acquainted with crowds, there were in the
crowd gentlemen and baronets disguised as common people. Disguise is one
of the pleasures of pride, and was much in fashion at that period. This
mixing of the aristocratic element with the mob was a good sign, and
showed that their popularity was extending to London. The fame of
Gwynplaine has decidedly penetrated into the great world. Such was the
fact. Nothing was talked of but the Laughing Man. He was talked about
even at the Mohawk Club, frequented by noblemen.

In the Green Box they had no idea of all this. They were content to be
happy. It was intoxication to Dea to feel, as she did every evening, the
crisp and tawny head of Gwynplaine. In love there is nothing like habit.
The whole of life is concentrated in it. The reappearance of the stars
is the custom of the universe. Creation is nothing but a mistress, and
the sun is a lover. Light is a dazzling caryatid supporting the world.
Each day, for a sublime minute, the earth, covered by night, r