“It is the little rift within the lute
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening, slowly silence all.
“The little rift within the lover’s lute,
Or little pitted speck in garner’d fruit,
That, rotting inward, slowly moulders all.
“It is not worth the keeping: let it go:
But shall it? Answer, darling, answer ‘No;’
And trust me not at all or all in all.”
There Gladys seemed to forget her part, and, turning, stretched her arms towards her husband, as if in music she had found a tongue to plead her cause. The involuntary gesture recalled to her that other verse which Vivien added to her song; and something impelled her to sing it, standing erect, with face, figure, voice all trembling with the strong emotion that suddenly controlled her:—