"That's true," said Edith. "Dodo probably remembered that."
"Oh, you sha'n't abuse Dodo any more," said Miss Grantham. "I think it's perfectly horrid of you. Go and play me something."
Perhaps the thought of Chesterford was in Edith's mind as she sat down to the piano, for she played a piece of Mozart's "Requiem," which is the saddest music in the world.
Miss Grantham shivered a little. The long wailing notes, struck some chord, within her, which disturbed her peace of mind.
"What a dismal thing," she said, when Edith had finished. "You make me feel like Sunday evening after a country church."
Edith stood looking out of the window. The moon was up, and the great stars were wheeling in their courses through the infinite vault. A nightingale was singing loud in the trees, and the little mysterious noises of night stole about among the bushes. As Edith thought of Chesterford she remembered how the Greeks mistook the passionate song of the bird for the lament of the dead, and it did not seem strange to her. For love, sometimes goes hand-in-hand with death.
She turned back into the room again.
"God forgive her," she said, "if we cannot."
"I'm not going to bed with that requiem in my ears," said Miss Grantham. "I should dream of hearses."
Edith went to the piano, and broke into a quick, rippling movement.