And, releasing her hands, he sat down to the piano, and played the introduction softly. He felt a nervous thrill going down his spine as he plunged into the mawkish words. And when he came to the refrain, he had an uneasy sense that Mary Ann was crying—he dared not look at her. He sang on bravely:
"Kiss me, good-night, dear love,
Dream of the old delight;
My spirit is summoned above,
Kiss me, dear love, good-night."
He couldn't go through another verse—he felt himself all a-quiver, every nerve shattered. He jumped up. Yes, his conjecture had been right. Mary Ann was crying. He laughed spasmodically again. The thought had occurred to him how vain Peter would be if he could know the effect of his commonplace ballad.
"There, I'll kiss you too, dear!" he said huskily, still smiling.
"That'll be for the last time."
Their lips met, and then Mary Ann seemed to fade out of the room in a blur of mist.
An instant after there was a knock at the door.
"Forgot her parcels after a last good-bye," thought Lancelot, and continued to smile at the comicality of the new episode.
He cleared his throat.
"Come in," he cried, and then he saw that the parcels were gone, too, and it must be Rosie.
But it was merely Mary Ann.