Mabel has the baby on her knee, her husband is dozing in an armchair, Jimmy is sitting half-in half-out of the window, Paul is reading, and Philippa is lying on the sofa.
'Lippa,' says Dalrymple, 'sing us something.'
'What would you like?' she answers, rising slowly.
'Anything,' he replies.
She runs her fingers over the keys and then sings 'The Garden of Sleep.'
Paul closes his book as she begins, looking at her earnestly.
Why does she sing that song, so close as they are to the real spot; and why does it say 'the graves of dear women,' the only one he knows buried there is a little child. He rises abruptly as the song is finished, and passes through the French window into the garden. Philippa has begun something else. He pauses and listens.
'Why live when life is sad?
Death only sweet.'
Ah! thinks he, that is exactly it. What good is life to me!
The evening sun floods with a golden haze the road before him; he walks on, the distant sound of the waves coming up from the sands, and almost unconsciously he sings in a low voice,