It did not last. Ashendynes were not apt long to indulge in that kind of thing. Medway pulled a good oar out of it. The room very soon became perfectly still again. When the silence was broken, he asked her what she was reading, and then if she had seen anything of the city. Presently he told her to sing. He thought he might sleep; he hadn't slept much last night. "I must have had a presentiment of this damned thing—Go on and sing!" She crooned "Dixie" and "Swanee River" and "Annie Laurie," but it was of no use. He could not sleep. "Of all things to come to me, this—!... Why, I should like to be out in the desert this minute, with a caravan.... O God!"
She brought him cool water. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry!" she said.
As she put down the glass, he held her by the sleeve. A twisted smile, half-wretched, half with a glint of cheer, crossed his face. "Do you know, Gipsy, I could grow right fond of you."
CHAPTER XXI
AT ROGER MICHAEL'S
On an early April afternoon in the year 1902 a man and woman were crossing, with much leisureliness, Trafalgar Square.
"We won't get run over! It isn't like Paris."
"Aren't you tired, Molly? Don't you want a hansom?"
"Tired? No! What could make me tired a day like this? I want to go stroke the lions."