"Mark—what's the matter with Dan?"
One—two—three. One—two—three. Something bumped against the glass door of the cabinet. A light tinkling crash of a broken pane. She could see slantwise as she went on playing. Dan was standing up. He swayed, feeling for the ledge of the cabinet. Then he started to come down the room, his head lowered, thrust forward, his eyes heavy with some earnest, sombre purpose.
He seemed to be hours coming down the room by himself. Hours standing in the middle of the room, holding on to the parrot chair.
"Mark!"
"Go on playing."
He went to him. Roddy sprang up from somewhere. Hours while they were getting Dan away from the parrot chair to the door beside the piano. Hours between the opening and sudden slamming of the door.
But she had not played a dozen bars. She went on playing.
"Wait a minute, Effie."
Effie was standing beside her with her hand on the door.
"I've lost my pocket-handkerchief. I must have left it in the dining-room.
I know I left it in the dining-room," she said, fussing.