One evening Mary asked Pedro to sing, speaking to him in her halting Spanish. So Pedro went off and got his guitar; but when he must stand there and sing before Mary he could only stammer a childish old song having in it nothing of passion and longing:
‘I was born on a reef that is washed by the sea;
It is a part of Spain that is called Teneriffe.
I was born on a reef. . . .’
sang the unhappy Pedro.
Stephen felt sorry for the lanky boy with the lovesick eyes, and so to console him she offered him money, ten pesetas—for she knew that these people set much store by money. But Pedro seemed to have grown very tall as he gently but firmly refused consolation. Then he suddenly burst into tears and fled, leaving his little guitar behind him.
3
The days were too short, as were now the nights—those spring nights of soft heat and incredible moonlight. And because they both felt that something was passing, they would turn their minds to thoughts of the future. The future was drawing very near to the present; in less than three weeks they must start for Paris.
Mary would suddenly cling to Stephen: ‘Say that you’ll never leave me, belovèd!’
‘How could I leave you and go on living?’