Then he heard him say, "Let's 'ave mine," and he saw that his hand was on Alice's shoulders as he leaned over her to find the hymn.
"Good God!" said Rowcliffe to himself. "That explains it."
He got up softly. Now that he knew, he felt that it was horrible to spy on her.
But Greatorex had begun singing again, and the sheer beauty of the voice held Rowcliffe there to listen.
"'Lead—Kindly Light—amidst th' encircling gloo-oom,
Lead Thou me o-on.
Keep—Thou—my—feet—I do not aa-aassk too-oo see-ee-ee
Ther di-is-ta-aant scene, woon step enoo-oof for mee-eea.'"
Greatorex was singing like an angel. And as he sang it was as if two passions, two longings, the earthly and the heavenly, met and mingled in him, so that through all its emotion his face remained incongruously mystic, queerly visionary.
"'O'er moor and fen—o'er crag and torrent ti-ill——'"
The evocation was intolerable to Rowcliffe.
He turned away and Greatorex's voice went after him.
"'And—with—the—morn tho-ose angel fa-a-ce-es smile
Which I-i—a-ave looved—long since—and lo-ost awhi-ile.'"