cry swelled out across a bed of tritomas consuming in their own fires—
When I said I will sail to my love this night
On the other side of the world.
I have no music, but the voice drew. I waited till the end:
Oh, maid most dear, I am not here
I have no place apart—
No dwelling more on sea or shore,
But only in thy heart.
It seemed to me a poor life that had no more than that to do at eleven o'clock of a Tuesday forenoon. Then Miss Sichliffe suddenly lumbered through a French window in clumsy haste, her brows contracted against the light.
'Well?' she said, delivering the word like a spear-thrust, with the full weight of a body behind it.
'I've brought Harvey back at last,' I replied. 'Here he is.'
But it was at me she looked, not at the dog who had cast himself at her feet—looked as though she would have fished my soul out of my breast on the instant.
'Wha—what did you think of him? What did you make of him?' she panted. I was too taken aback for the moment to reply. Her voice broke as she stooped to the dog at her knees. 'O Harvey, Harvey! You utterly worthless old devil!' she cried, and the dog cringed and abased himself in servility that one could scarcely bear to look upon. I made to go.
