He reached over and took her hand. Sebastian administered bitter tonics to her, fluids she could not taste with her swollen tongue. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Tum, tum, tirray, tum, tum, tum, te-tum—that thing of Mendelssohn’s! If making one human being absolutely happy is any satisfaction to you—” He held out his hands, and she also stood up. And there arose too, a background of shouts. And all the third act is love-sick music.
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