She can't come to Hampstead,
Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah,
Miss Coldwell's not coming:"
John ventured to rebuke the singers for their insensibility to human suffering.
"For she may be dangerously ill," he protested.
"How fizzing," Bertram shouted.
"She might die."
The prospect that this opened before Bertram was apparently too beautiful for any verbal utterance, and he remained open-mouthed in a mute and exquisite anticipation of liberty.
"What and never come to us ever again?" Viola breathed, her blue eyes aglow with visions of a larger life.
John shook his head, gravely.