From the adjoining studio came a chorus led by Schneibel’s shrill tenor impetuously in advance:
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ lang syne?”
Far out toward the river, a premature tug began a tiny whistle.
“How ridiculous that sounds!” he said irritably. Then, listening intently to the repeated chorus, he seemed to be visualizing another scene, for presently he said, with a touch of sadness, the first he had displayed:
“They’ll be singing that pretty soon down by the marble fireplace after the speech. Steingall, Quinny, the whole crowd—the boys—perhaps—no, no; I guess not—‘auld acquaintance’—I wonder——”
Outside, a great bell rang, and swift upon it another. All at once, like a storm breaking, the night awoke with whistle, siren, and clanging steeple—joyful, eager, perennially hopeful.
She bent toward him and laid her hand over his.
“A new chance.”
He stood up suddenly, as though at the limit of his tether, and said between his teeth:
“By heavens, I am going out! I can’t stand this.”