"I never heard it before," said Talbot. "Sing the rest. Now you are yourself again.
Whatever you feel, Brooke, don't speak of it, but laugh, and jest, and sing old scraps of songs."
"I won't," said Brooke. "I'll sing nothing more, and I'll say nothing more."
Talbot made no reply.
Brooke was true to his resolution, and said not another word. Talbot was as silent as he. Each had thoughts which were all-engrossing. Neither spoke, but each knew perfectly well that the other was wide awake, and full of care.
Thus the night passed away, with its long, long hours. It seemed interminable; but at length it came to an end, as all nights must, however long. The dawn came, and the two could see each other. Each sat propped up against the wall. Neither one spoke for a long time, until it was broad day, when Brooke, who had been watching Talbot's face until it grew fully revealed, broke the silence with a slight cough. Talbot turned and smiled.
"Good-morning," said Brooke. "We seem to be having quite a spell of weather. Quite a fine view from these windows. You haven't been out yet, I suppose?"
"Not yet," said Talbot.
"Well," said Brooke, "we must take a walk after breakfast:
"'Oh, if I was the owner of London town,
I'd buy my love a scarlet gown—
A gown of scarlet bombazine,
And away we'd travel to Gretna Green.'"