A few coon songs followed, with the four voices, contralto and baritone, tenor and soprano, blending in harmony. Then Etta Clavering drew her fingers across the strings and declared it was time for bed.
"One more," pleaded Betty. "Just one more. You two sing."
Etta Clavering turned her head and eyed her husband; her eyes glittered in the starlight and there was a gleam of white teeth as she smiled. She tentatively thrummed a few chords.
"Shall we, Garry?"
Her husband nodded. "Yes," he said, "that one." He took his pipe from his mouth. "Go ahead…."
So together they sang "Friendship," that perfection of old-world romance which is beyond all art in its utter simplicity.
The banjo was restored to its case at length, and the singers rose to depart. Farewells were exchanged and plans for the future, while the four strolled together to the edge of the woods.
"Well," said Clavering, "we shall see you again the day after to-morrow, with any luck."
Etta Clavering turned towards Betty. "Isn't it nice to dare to look ahead as far as that?" she asked with a little smile. "Fancy! The day after to-morrow! Good night—good night!"
Betty and the India-rubber Man stood looking after them until they were swallowed by the darkness. Then he placed his arm round his wife's shoulders, and together they retraced their steps across the clearing towards the tent.