Softly she rose to her feet. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. "Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. He had been reading Belfort Bax, and declared himself a convert. Then instinct took over. Shoving between them, she confronted the captain herself. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. It was not until the morning of the fifth day that the constant vigil was broken.
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