On, on!’ cries Time, and smites with painful goad.
“They say though, that before the soul is fled
From this frail house, old Time, turned kind, will bring,
In outstretched arms, those happy hours long dead—
A sheaf of golden moments spent with thee,
The tender blossoms of our hopeful spring
And, here and there, a scarlet memory.”
McCall’s voice stopped. His long, slender fingers went forward across the table and he sat staring down in front of him. A waiter who had been standing near-by in respectful silence, coughed. The lady at the next table, looking haughtily ahead, swept by with her escort.
“It’s very pretty,” said Hamilton after a moment.
“Yes, I like it,” added Levin. Then with apparent irrelevance, “I suppose you know that Miss Meadows is here, in New York.”