Like receding battle echoes the chords, clashing distantly, died away.
If she heard her husband turn, enter the hallway, and unbolt the door, she made no sign. Ailsa, beside her, stooped and passed one arm around her.
"You—are not crying, are you, Celia, darling?" she whispered.
Her sister-in-law, lashes wet, rose with decision.
"I think that I have made a goose of myse'f to-night. Marye, will you say to your father that it is after eleven o'clock, and that I am waiting to be well scolded and sent to bed?"
"Father went out a few moments ago," said Paige in an awed voice.
"I heard him unbolt the front door."
Ailsa turned and walked swiftly out into the hallway; the front door swung wide; Mr. Craig stood on the steps wearing his hat. He looked around as she touched his arm.
"Oh, is it you, Ailsa?" There was a moment's indecision. Through it, once more, far away in the city The Voices became audible again, distant, vague, incessant.
"I thought—if it is actually an extra—" he began carelessly and hesitated; and she said:
"Let me go with you. Wait. I'll speak to Celia."