“Pitch it in altoes, then,” said Cæsar. “I'm a bit of a base myself, but not near so base as Peter.”
Meanwhile a little drama of serious interest was going on upstairs. There sat Kate before the looking-glass, with flushed cheeks and quivering mouth. The low drone of many voices came to her through the floor. Then a dull silence and one voice, and Nancy Joe coming and going between the kitchen and bedroom.
“What are they doing now, Nancy?” said Kate.
“First one's praying, and then another's praying,” said Nancy. “Lord-a-massy, thinks I, it'll be my turn next, and what'll I say?”
“Where's Mr. Christian?”
“Gone into the parlour. I whispered him you wanted him alone.”
“You never said that, Nancy,” said Kate, at Nancy's reflection in the glass.
“Well, it popped out,” said Nancy.
Kate went down, with a look of softened sorrow, and Philip, without lifting his eyes, began bemoaning Pete. They would never know his like—so simple, so true, so brave; never, never.
He was fighting against his shame at first seeing the girl after that kiss, which seemed to him now like treason at the mouth of a grave.