"And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. It begins with that queer piccolo solo. ” She glared at Sebastian over the drawing table where she was sketching in chalk, then over at the fifteen year old boy who was asleep in a disheveled pile of rushes in the corner. There was something about their greeting and the tone of Annabel’s exclamation which puzzled her. She closed her eyes more vividly to recall some line which had carried the blot.
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