Thy lover watches for thy passing shade
Across the blind, and sobs and sighs till dawn
Glows o’er the vale and creeps along the glade.
And thou canst sleep—thou heedest not his sighing;
And thou canst sleep—thou wouldst if he were dying;
Yes, thou canst sleep—canst sleep—sleep.”
There was a second verse to the same effect, exquisitely sung, but worn threadbare by familiarity, which Vansittart heard impatiently, watching Eve and her companion, and longing to break in upon their seclusion. They were silent now, since they could not with decency talk while De Lampion was singing.
There were only two verses. De Lampion was too much an artist to sing lengthy songs, although too lazy to extend his repertoire. He liked people to be sorry when he left off.
Vansittart dropped into a chair near his wife. The rooms had not filled yet, so there was a possibility of sitting down, and this quiet corner, screened by an arrangement of palms and tall golden lilies, was a pleasant haven for conversation in the brief intervals between the music, which was of that superior order which is heard in respectful silence by everybody within earshot, though the people outside the room talk to their hearts’ content, a buzz of multitudinous voices breaking in upon the silence whenever a door is opened.
Sefton and Vansittart shook hands directly the song was over.