The hours passed. They left the dining-room and went into the
drawing-room which boasted a piano, ordering their coffee to be
brought there.
"I wonder how the kiddies are?" said she, awakening to the hard facts
of real life.
"Sit down and sing to me," he answered, opening the instrument.
"What would you like me to sing? You know I haven't sung a note for
many days."
He was well aware of it, but he _did_ want a song.
She sat down before the piano and began to play. It was a squeaking
instrument that reminded one of the rattling of loose teeth.
"What shall I sing?" she asked, turning round on the music-stool.
"You know, darling," he replied, not daring to meet her eyes.
"Your song! Very well, if I can remember it." And she sang: "Where is
the blessed country where my beloved dwells?"
But alas! Her voice was thin and shrill and emotion made her sing out
of tune. At times it sounded like a cry from the bottom of a soul
which feels that noon is past and evening approaching. The fingers
which had done hard work strayed on the wrong keys. The instrument,
too, had seen its best days; the cloth on the hammers had worn away;
it sounded as if the springs touched the bare wood.
When she had finished her song, she sat for a while without turning
round, as if she expected him to come and speak to her.
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