Grandmama, as usual, was beating time with her hand on the arm of her chair.
"Detestable creatures," said Mrs. Hilary, with acrimony, as usual.
"But a very racy tune, my dear," said Grandmama, placidly, as usual.
"Blood! Blood!" sang the Army, exultantly, as usual.
May looked happy, and her attention strayed from the game. The Army was one of the joys, one of the comic turns, of this watering-place.
"Six and two are eight," said Grandmama, and picked them up, recalling May's attention. But she herself still beat time to the merry music-hall tune and the ogreish words.
Grandmama could afford to be tolerant, as she sat there, looking over the edge into eternity, with Time, his fangs drawn, stretched sleepily behind her back. Time, who flew, bird-like, before May's pursuing feet; time, who stared balefully into Mrs. Hilary's face, returning hate for hate, rested behind Grandmama's back like a faithful steed who had carried her thus far and whose service was nearly over.
The Army moved on; its music blared away into the distance. The rain beat steadily on wet asphalt roads; the edge of the cold sea tumbled and moaned; the noise of the fire flickering was like unsteady breathing, or the soft fluttering of wings.
"Time is so long," thought Mrs. Hilary. "I can't bear it."
"Time gets on that quick," thought May. "I can't keep up with it."