"Death must come like that sometimes," he murmured.
"Like what?"
"Like that thick darkness outside and oneself against the universe."
"I'd give anything for a guitar," Sylvia exclaimed.
"What would you play first?" he inquired, gravely.
She sang gently:
"La donna è mobile qual piuma al vento,
Muta d'accento e di pensiero,
Sempre un amabile leggiadro viso,
In pianto o in riso, è menzognero—
and that's all I can remember of it," she said, breaking off.
"I wonder why you chose to sing that."
"It reminds me of my father," she answered. "When he was drunk, fair cousin, he always used to sing that. What a charming son-in-law he would have made for our grandfather! Oh, are we ever going to move again?" she cried, jumping up and pressing her face against the viewless pane. "Hark! I hear horses."