No. Not that. There was the Funeral March in it: _sulle morte d'un eroe_.
Mark was going away.
"Waldteufel," then. _One_--two--three. _One_--two--three. Sustained thrum
in the bass. One--two--three. Thursday--Friday--_One_--two--three.
Saturday--Sunday. Beat of her thoughts, beat of the music in a sort of
syncopated time. _One_--two--three, Monday.
On Tuesday Mark would be gone.
His eyes made her break off to look round. Dan had come back into the
room, to his place between the cabinet and the chimney-piece. He stooped
forward, his head hanging as if some weight dragged it. His eyes, turned
up, staring at Effie, showed half circles of blood-shot white. His face
was flushed. A queer, leaden grey flush.
Aunt Lavvy sat beside him. She had her hand on his arm, to keep him quiet
there in his corner.
"Mark--what's the matter with Dan?"
_One_--two--three. _One_--two--three. Something bumped against the glass
door of the cabinet. A light tinkling crash of a broken pane. She could
see slantwise as she went on playing. Dan was standing up. He swayed,
feeling for the ledge of the cabinet. Then he started to come down the
room, his head lowered, thrust forward, his eyes heavy with some earnest,
sombre purpose.
He seemed to be hours coming down the room by himself. Hours standing in
the middle of the room, holding on to the parrot chair.
"Mark!"
"Go on playing."
He went to him. Roddy sprang up from somewhere. Hours while they were
getting Dan away from the parrot chair to the door beside the piano.
Hours between the opening and sudden slamming of the door.
But she had not played a dozen bars. She went on playing.
"Wait a minute, Effie."
Effie was standing beside her with her hand on the door.
"I've lost my pocket-handkerchief. I must have left it in the dining-room.
I _know_ I left it in the dining-room," she said, fussing.