(A strain from the organ wakes Clay. He follows them down, tiptoeing past the filling pews, covering the oak-twig still in his hat.)
WETHERELL
(In an undertone, on the threshold.) The air is good, again. Lo, I perceive the genial 'bus yonder, also several nimble cabs. Come, ladies fair; come, Clay. You shall eat posthumously in the nineteenth century, and make us all drink the health of "the Blackbird"; as the old song has it,
"With a fa la lá, la-la, la-la, la la lá, with a fa la lá, la-la, lá, lá."
(Clay smiles, and they pass out into the Square.)
THIS BOOK WAS PRINTED BY
JOHN WILSON AND SON, AT
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE,
MASSACHUSETTS, DURING
MAY, 1897