In the silence after the storm he glided from the more directly personal songs of Scotland, half humming them as he played, into the Evening Hymn.
‘Sunday,’ said he, nodding his head.
‘Go on. Don’t apologise for it,’ said Spurstow.
Hummil laughed long and riotously. ‘Play it, by all means. You’re full of surprises to-day. I didn’t know you had such a gift of finished sarcasm. How does that thing go?’
Mottram took up the tune.
‘Too slow by half. You miss the note of gratitude,’ said Hummil. ‘It ought to go to the “Grasshopper’s Polka,”—this way.’ And he chanted, prestissimo,—
‘Glory to thee, my God, this night. For all the blessings of the light.
That shows we really feel our blessings. How does it go on?—
‘If in the night I sleepless lie, My soul with sacred thoughts supply; May no ill dreams disturb my rest.’—
Quicker, Mottram!—