After dinner they all went into the verandah and the men smoked there. Clem never smoked, but she liked the smell of cigars. Poppy had long broken herself of the cigarette habit. Later, Portal said he must go and write two important letters to catch the mail—after that they would have a game of Bridge if anyone liked. Clem said she would go and play to the others her setting to "In Exile," of which she was very proud. She sang it softly over and over to them for a while. Afterwards she wandered through Chopin's "Prelude" into Schubert's gentle "Andante." Then unaccountably she began to fling out into the night the great solemn chords of a Funeral March. It was a wonderful thing, full of the dignity of sorrow, underlaid by thin wailings that spoke of little memories of all the past sweetnesses of the dead. There was a place in it that made Poppy think her dead child's arms were round her neck, and another where Carson thought of Alan Wilson and his thirty-one brave companions lying under the stars up in lonely Zimbabwe. At another time, he remembered a man dear to him, killed at Gwelo in the second native rising; he seemed to see the fellow with his hands in his pockets whistling to his dogs in a peculiar way he had.
Through all the playing Poppy and he sat in the verandah, side by side, in two low canvas chairs. A fold of her gown lay across his feet. They were absolutely silent and they did not look at each other. Carson was staring straight before him, but without a turn of his head or flicker of his eyelids he was conscious of every tiniest detail of the woman by his side. He saw the gracious line of her cheek and throat and thigh and foot; but, more than that, he believed he saw the spirit of her too, gentle and sad, but brave and desirable to him beyond the soul of any woman—and his. She was his. He was certain of that now. He had taken the knowledge from her eyes when they met that night; and yet it seemed old knowledge to him, something he had known since the beginning of time.
Her hand lay within reach of his, but he did not touch it. Only too conscious of the mysterious magnetism of the flesh, he strove with all the fine instincts and high aspirations his spirit had ever given birth to and his body honoured, to free himself from the shackles of the flesh and give to this woman whom he loved and blessed a greater salute than the mere touching of hands.
As for her—her eyes were closed. She, too, was reaching out with spirit-hands to him. Inasmuch as human souls which are aloof and lonely things can communicate—theirs met and hailed each other as mate until the end of time.
Suddenly Clem freed them of sorrow. She began to play something that was like an old piece of brocade all flowered over quaintly with tiny leaves, true lovers' knots, and little pink-and-blue rose-buds. Presently the brocade became a stately dress, worn with powder and patches and high scarlet-heeled shoes.... Portal, having finished his mail, came back to the verandah, and Clem closed the piano then and came out too. They sat and talked, and no one again suggested cards.
The night was fresh and sweet after the rain, and the sky above alive with newly-washed stars. Far away, Durban flashed and sparkled, and just above the bay there was a great splash of vermilion against the darkness of the bluff—sometimes it showed streaks of carmine in it. They discussed the phenomenon, and eventually concluded that a boat out on the water was afire. Whatever the cause, it certainly gave the finishing touch to the picturesque beauty of the night.
A little after eleven Carson left. He shook hands with everyone at parting, and for a brief instant he and Poppy drank another deep draught of joy from each other's eyes.
No sooner had he gone than Clem said:
"Poppy, you are to go to bed instantly, and stay there until I give you leave to get up. You look like a spectre."
Poppy took her hand and kissed it. She was trembling with happiness, but she dared not speak of it. Clem put an arm round her.