he let her go; is she?--is it true?" shouted half
a dozen.

Krafft looked up and winked. His reply was so gross and so witty that
there was a very howl of mirth.

"KRAFFT HOCH, HOCH KRAFFT!" they cried, and roared again, until the
proprietor, a mild, round-faced man, who was loath to meddle with his
best customers, advanced to the middle of the floor, where he stood
smiling uneasily and rubbing his hands.

But it was growing late.

"Why the devil doesn't he come?" yawned Boehmer.

"Perhaps," said Dove, mouthing deliberately as if he had a good thing
on his tongue; perhaps, by now, he is safe in the arms of----"

"Jesus or Morpheus?" asked a cockney 'cellist.

"Safe in the arms of Jesus!" sang the tipsy pianist; but he was outsung
by Krafft, who, rising from his seat, gave with dramatic gesture:

O sink' hernieder,
Nacht der Liebe,
gieb Vergessen,
dass ich lebe ...

After this, with much laughter and ado, they broke up to seek another
cafe in the heart of the town, where the absinthe was good and the
billiard-table better, two of his friends supporting Ford, who was
testily debating with himself why a composer should compose his own
works. At the first corner, Maurice whispered a word to Dove, and,
unnoticed by the rest, slipped away. For some time, he heard the sound
of their voices down the quiet street. A member of the group, in
defiance of the night, began to sing; and then, just as one bird is
provoked by another, rose a clear, sweet voice he recognised as
Krafft's, in a song the refrain of which was sung by all:

Give me the Rose of Sharon,
And a bottle of Cyprus wine!

What followed was confused, indistinct, but over and over again he
heard:

... the Rose of Sharon,
... a bottle of Cyprus wine!

until that, too, was lost in the distance.

When he reached his room, he did not light the lamp, but crossed to the
window and stood looking out into the darkness. The day's impressions,
motley as the changes of a kaleidoscope, seethed in his brain,
clamoured to be recalled and set in order; but he kept them back; he
could not face the task. He felt averse to any mental effort, in need
of a repose as absolute as the very essence of silence itself. The sky
was overcast; a wayward breeze blew coolly in upon him and refreshed
him; a few single raindrops fell. In the air a gentle melancholy was
abroad, and, as he stood there, wax for any passing mood, it descended
on him and enveloped him.