And how snug it was, how peaceful in the little parlour, with the lamp lighted and the curtains drawn, when Roger lounged happily in the easy chair beside the fire, and Grace sat at the little mellow-toned old Broadwood piano, and sang old songs, played snatches of old melodies, grave and gay, finishing up with Sullivan’s tender and wistful love duet:
None shall part us from each other,
One in life and death are we,
and Roger came to her side and sang Strephon’s part, quite softly, for her ears alone, though if he could have sung with like expression on the stage, and to order, he would have made his fortune!
After that there was such a silence that little Miss Culpepper considered it advisable to be seized with a fit of coughing and to make quite a business of opening the door when she brought the supper-tray.
A chill breath from the world they had left behind swept over them indeed for a few brief minutes next morning, when Roger went down to the garage to fetch the car, and brought back three London papers—all he could get in the village.
“Very little about it at all,” he said. “And nothing fresh.... The inquest was merely opened and adjourned for a week; and they say, ‘The police are following up a clue’; but they always say that.”
“How is Sir Robert?” asked Grace.
“Improving steadily. I heard that from Thomson. I rang him up from the hotel. He says the funeral is fixed for Tuesday, at noon, and I really think I ought to go up for it, darling. I’m sure Sir Robert would like to see me, if he’s allowed to see anyone by then, and I could get back at night.”