ds, as, beneath a bridge, the high lights on dark waters
melt and waver and disappear into black depths. Well, it was a silly old
tune....

It goes with the words--they are about a willow tree, I think: Thou art
to all lost loves the best The only true plant found.

--That sort of thing. It is Herrick, I believe, and the music with the
reedy, irregular, lilting sound that goes with Herrick, And it was
dusk; the heavy, hewn, dark pillars that supported the gallery were like
mourning presences; the fire had sunk to nothing--a mere glow amongst
white ashes.... It was a sentimental sort of place and light and
hour....

And suddenly Nancy found that she was crying. She was crying quietly;
she went on to cry with long convulsive sobs. It seemed to her that
everything gay, everything charming, all light, all sweetness, had gone
out of life. Unhappiness; unhappiness; unhappiness was all around her.
She seemed to know no happy being and she herself was agonizing....

She remembered that Edward's eyes were hopeless; she was certain that he
was drinking too much; at times he sighed deeply. He appeared as a man
who was burning with inward flame; drying up in the soul with thirst;
withering up in the vitals. Then, the torturing conviction came to
her--the conviction that had visited her again and again--that Edward
must love some one other than Leonora. With her little, pedagogic
sectarianism she remembered that Catholics do not do this thing. But
Edward was a Protestant. Then Edward loved somebody....

And, after that thought, her eyes grew hopeless; she sighed as the old
St Bernard beside her did. At meals she would feel an intolerable desire
to drink a glass of wine, and then another and then a third. Then she
would find herself grow gay.... But in half an hour the gaiety went; she
felt like a person who is burning up with an inward flame; desiccating
at the soul with thirst; withering up in the vitals. One evening she
went into Edward's gun-room--he had gone to a meeting of the National
Reserve Committee. On the table beside his chair was a decanter of
whisky. She poured out a wineglassful and drank it off. Flame then
really seemed to fill her body; her legs swelled; her face grew
feverish. She dragged her tall height up to her room and lay in the
dark. The bed reeled beneath her; she gave way to the thought that she
was in Edward's arms; that he was kissing her on her face that burned;
on her shoulders that burned, and on