He leaned his elbow on the table and shaded his eyes with his hand, as if he were determined to shut out the present—this very present which,—after all, had been of his own seeking.
The hours passed. They left the dining-room and went into the drawing-room which boasted a piano, ordering their coffee to be brought there.
“I wonder how the kiddies are?” said she, awakening to the hard facts of real life.
“Sit down and sing to me,” he answered, opening the instrument.
“What would you like me to sing? You know I haven’t sung a note for many days.”
He was well aware of it, but he did want a song.
She sat down before the piano and began to play. It was a squeaking instrument that reminded one of the rattling of loose teeth.
“What shall I sing?” she asked, turning round on the music-stool.
“You know, darling,” he replied, not daring to meet her eyes.
“Your song! Very well, if I can remember it.” And she sang: “Where is the blessed country where my beloved dwells?”