Then they had a cold shower, dressed, and went back to Darwen's home, feeling at peace with all the world, forgetting Councillor Donovan and the dead man in the engine-room and all other troubles.
Darwen let himself in and took Carstairs into the drawing-room. "Sit down in that big chair, old chap, and I'll play you a tune. The mater'll soon come in when she hears the music."
Carstairs threw himself back in the deep padded chair with a sigh of content. "I envy not in any mood," he started and stopped. "Where's that from, Darwen?"
"Tennyson's 'In Memoriam.'" Darwen was turning over some music folios.
"Yes, that's it. I remember. I picked it up one day in the digs and that caught my eye. It goes on to say something else about noble rage and linnets, or something, but what I 'envy not' is the man who's never been tired."
"I agree with you. Being tired, with the pleasant contemplation of work well done and sitting in a comfortable chair, is heaven."
"Precisely. And you never get tired, really, pleasantly tired, unless you're fit. The man who's not fit, doesn't appreciate comfort or discomfort, he's only half alive."
"That is so. I think this is your favourite." Darwen commenced to play, lightly and slowly.
"That's that nocturne business, isn't it?"
"One of them. There's a book full."