"Human vitality is at its lowest in the small hours," she whispered. She looked down at Walter Markham. I looked at her. "I don't know," she said. "I don't know."
I sat on. It was so quiet in there—the world seemed like a very young baby asleep, the moonlight flooding over the hill to diffuse a sort of white holiness, an effortless tranquillity.
They had said that Walter Markham could not live through the night, and yet I was not sorry for him. I only wanted to be immensely good to him while he lived, to send him out happy.
"Pam," he said, "I sort of hear you singing—are you singing?"
"Perhaps my heart is."
"What songs, Pam?"
"Lullabies, dear, lovely, gentle lullabies."
"Not love-songs, Pam?"
"No."
"Love-songs suit you best," he said.