The sound of a song being sung below brought a questioning frown to the sick man’s eyes again. Who was it playing? What was the song? He did not recognise it!
Noll asked if he might not send them all away—he would stop the noise.
“No, no,” said André. “Let them sing their songs—it was Guitreau who had found a publisher—he had himself discovered Guitreau—it would be boorish to spoil his evening—no, no—let them sing their songs. We have only once to live——”
There was loud laughter....
They had sat awhile in silence, when Noll asked if they could do nothing.
No; he wanted for nothing. The waiters were good souls. Everyone had been kind. No.... He thought he would now sleep.
He embraced them, and they left the room—crept from it silently, some strange instinct and dread dictating their going a-tiptoe.
And as Noll turned to close the door, the wan-faced man in the gloom of the ill-lit room ran his hand wearily over his brow and flung his arm restlessly upon the coverlet.