And feeling that his harsh tones were melting into tenderness, he drowned his emotion in a loud grumble.
"Father," said Dea, "how roughly you talk."
"That is because I don't like to see people too happy."
Here Homo re-echoed Ursus. His growl was heard from beneath the lovers' feet.
Ursus stooped down, and placed his hand on Homo's head: "That's right; you're in bad humour, too. You growl. The bristles are all on end on your pate. You don't like all this love-making. That 's because you are wise. Hold your tongue all the same. You have had your say, and given your opinion; so be it. Now be silent."
The wolf growled again. Ursus looked under the table at him:—
"Be still. Homo! Come, don't dwell on it, you philosopher!"
But the wolf sat up, and looked towards the door, showing his teeth.
"What 's wrong with you now?" said Ursus. And he caught hold of Homo by the skin of the neck.
Heedless of the wolf's growls, and wholly wrapt up in her own thoughts, and in the sound of Gwynplaine's voice, Dea sat silent, absorbed in that kind of ecstasy peculiar to the blind, which seems at times to give them a song to listen to in their hearts, and to make up to them for the vision which they lack by some strain of ideal music. Blindness is a cavern through which celestial harmonies are ever floating.
While Ursus was looking down, talking to Homo, Gwynplaine raised his eyes. He was about to drink a cup of tea. He did not drink it however, but slowly replaced it on the table. His fingers remained open, his eyes fixed. He scarcely breathed.
A man was standing in the doorway, behind Dea.
