III
Hilda said: “So there you are, David. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Don’t let’s stay in this
room, it’s so frightfully cold.
David did not answer for a minute. He was standing looking at a chair, a low chair with faded
satin upholstery. He said abruptly
That’s her chair . . . the chair she always sat in . . . just the same—it’s just the same. Only
faded, of course.
A little frown creased Hilda’s forehead. She said
I see. Do let’s come out of here, David. It’s frightfully cold.
David took no notice. Looking round, he said
She sat in here mostly. I remember sitting on that stool there while she read to me. Jack the
Giant Killer—that was it—Jack the Giant Killer. I must have been six years old then.
Hilda put a firm hand through his arm.
Come back to the drawing room, dear. There’s no heating in this room.
He turned obediently, but she felt a little shiver go through him.
Just the same,” he murmured. “Just the same. As though time had stood still.
Hilda looked worried. She said in a cheerful determined voice
I wonder where the others are? It must be nearly teatime.
David disengaged his arm and opened another door.
There used to be a piano in here . . . Oh, yes, here it is! I wonder if it’s in tune.
He sat down and opened the lid, running his hands lightly over the keys.
Yes, it’s evidently kept tuned.
He began to play. His touch was good, the melody flowed out from under his fingers.
Hilda asked: “What is that? I seem to know it, and I can’t quite remember.
He said: “I haven’t played it for years. She used to play it. One of Mendelssohn’s Songs
Without Words.
The sweet, over-sweet, melody filled the room. Hilda said
Play some Mozart, do.
David shook his head. He began another Mendelssohn.
Then suddenly he brought his hands down upon the keys in a harsh discord. He got up. He
was trembling all over. Hilda went to him.
She said: “David—David.
He said: “It’s nothing—it’s nothing. . . .
