“At last,” she said as she ran to him. “You don’t know how I have wanted you. I can’t be alone—if you hadn’t turned up I should have had to find someone to talk to.”
“Anyone—didn’t matter who?” he suggested.
She laughed, caught his hand and rubbed her cheek against it. “Yes, anyone—you know what I mean. It’s just—when you think of what’s happening, how can you keep still?... As for father, I never see him nowadays. I suppose there isn’t any news?”
“There can’t be,” he answered. “Not till twelve.”
“No—and even at twelve it won’t really be news. Just no answer—and the time will be up.... We’re at peace now—till midnight.... What’s the time?”
He longed to be alone with her—alone with her in thought as well as in outward seeming—but her talk slipped restlessly away from his leading and she moved uncertainly about the room, returning at last to her vague striking of the piano—sharp, isolated notes, and then suddenly a masterful chord.
“Play to me,” he asked, “play properly.”
She shook her head and declared it was impossible.
“Anything connected is beyond me; I can only strum and make noises.” She crashed in the bass, rushed a swift arpeggio to the treble, then turned to him, her eyes wide and glowing. “If you hold your breath, can’t you feel them all waiting?—thousands on thousands—all through the world?... Waiting till midnight ... can’t you feel it?”
“You make me feel it,” he answered. “Tell me—you want war?”