"I don't care if they do. Don't you wish they'd go? Clever Minx. Clever paws."
Mamma passed and looked at them. Her face shrank and sharpened under the dropped wing of her hair. She must have heard what Mark said. She hated it when Mark talked and looked like that. She hated it when you played her music.
Beethoven, then. The "Sonata Eroica" was bound up with "Violetta," the
"Guards" and "Mabel" Waltzes and the "Pluie des Perles."
"Ubique quo fas et gloria ducunt." That was the meaning of the noble, serious, passionate music.
Roddy called out, "Oh, not that dull old thing."
No. Not that. There was the Funeral March in it: sulle morte d'un eroe.
Mark was going away.
"Waldteufel," then. One—two—three. One—two—three. Sustained thrum in the bass. One—two—three. Thursday—Friday—One—two—three. Saturday—Sunday. Beat of her thoughts, beat of the music in a sort of syncopated time. One—two—three, Monday.
On Tuesday Mark would be gone.
His eyes made her break off to look round. Dan had come back into the room, to his place between the cabinet and the chimney-piece. He stooped forward, his head hanging as if some weight dragged it. His eyes, turned up, staring at Effie, showed half circles of blood-shot white. His face was flushed. A queer, leaden grey flush.
Aunt Lavvy sat beside him. She had her hand on his arm, to keep him quiet there in his corner.