I then felt grateful for the silence, rolled over and
prepared to get on with my postponed slumber.
But Strong-i'-th'-lung decreed otherwise. With a contemptuous snort at
his rival's performance he opened his epic. He was splendid. For one and
three-ninths hours he descanted on the glories of field life, on the
freshness of the night, on the brilliance of the June foliage; for the
next two hours he ardently proclaimed the surpassing beauty of Thisbe's
eye, the glossiness of her plumage, the neatness of her claw, and he
wound up with a mad twenty minutes of piercing monotony as he depicted
the depth of his devotion for her.
When he ceased, in a silence which was almost deafening, I could
visualise Thisbe dimpling with satisfaction and undoubtedly filled with
tenderness toward a lover capable of expressing himself so eloquently. I
turned over with a sigh of relief and closed my eyes in pleasurable
anticipation of rest.
But Eugene felt it necessary to reply. I think his intention was to
crake disbelief of his rival's sincerity, to throw cold water on his
burning professions, perhaps even to question the excellence of his
intentions.
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