I shrugged my shoulders and laughed.
"You'll come to-morrow?" she asked, with increased and most unusual urgency.
"If possible," I answered again.
"But why won't you promise? Why do you always say 'if possible'? You're tiresome with your 'if possible.'" She shrugged her shoulders petulantly.
"I might be ill."
"Yes, and you might be dead, but——" She had begun petulantly and impatiently, as though she were angry at my excuse and meant to exhibit its absurdity. But now she stopped suddenly. In the pause the wind moaned.
"I hate that sound," she cried resentfully. "It comes from the souls of the dead as they fly through the air. They fly round and round the houses, crying to those who must join them soon."
"Ah, well, these people were, doubtless, often wrong when they were alive. Why must they be always right when they're dead?"
"No, death is near to-night. I wish you would stay with me—here, talking and forgetting it's night. I would make you coffee and sing to you. We would shut the window and light all the lights, and pretend it was day."
"I can't stay," I said. "I must get back. I have business early."