Explore "The Indian Bangle" by Fergus Hume on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The young men were seated on the terrace in the warm summer twilight. The plains of corn beyond the dark trees were filled with floating shadows, and the pale radiance of the long-set sun still lingered in the western skies. Overhead a few stars shone with mellow lustre in the warm, purple arch; but the moon had not yet rolled her wheel over the distant hills, and the dusk was faintly luminous, so that the landscape was indistinctly visible, as through a filmy veil. There was no breath of wind, and the trees seemed to extend their opaque shadows, even to the verge of the glimmering white terrace. At intervals a nightingale filled the dusk with silvery strains, and occasionally the hoot of a distant owl sounded like depreciative criticism of the bird music. So still, so dreamy, so peacefully beautiful, it was a magic night for love and lovers, for dancing elves and poet's singing.
Yet this unromantic pair were talking the crudest commonplaces -- harsh music for such an hour, for such a scene. But there are times when man sympathizes with Nature as little as does she with him.