I dream of the day I met you;
I dream of the light divine
That shone in your tender eyes, love.
When first they looked in mine,
I dream of the rose you gave me,
I dream of our last farewell,
I dream of the silent longing
That only the heart can tell . . .
Feathers had a healthy scorn for all things sentimental, but he found himself listening till the boat had passed on and the song vanished again into silence.
He looked at his watch then—it was four o'clock. If they started at once they could not possibly get home before half-past seven or eight, he knew, and recklessness closed down upon him.