The girl flung stole and muff from her, rolled up her gloves and took a shot at the piano, then, laughing, unpinned her hat and sent it scaling away into the golden dusk somewhere.
“Are you sleepy, Jim?”
A sudden vision of his trouble in the long, long night to face––trouble, insomnia, and the bitterness welling ever fresher with the interminable thoughts he could not suppress, could not control–––
“I’m not sleepy,” he said. “But don’t you want to turn in?”
She went over to the piano, and, accompanying herself on deadened pedal where she stood, sang in a low voice the “Snow-Tiger,” with its uncanny refrain:
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“Tiger-eyes Tiger-eyes, What do you see Far in the dark Over the snow? Far in the dark Over the snow, Slowly the ghosts of dead men go,–– Horses and riders under the moon Trample along to the dead men’s rune, Slava! Slava! Over the snow.” |
“That’s too hilarious a song,” said Jim, laughing. “May I suggest a little rag to properly subdue us?”
“You don’t like Tiger-eyes?”
“I’ve heard more cheerful ditties.”