Mrs. Durrant, sitting with Mr. Wortley in a motor-car, was impatient lest they should miss the overture. But Mr. Wortley, always urbane, always in time for the overture, buttoned his gloves, and admired Miss Clara. "A shame to spend such a night in the theatre!" said Mrs. Durrant, seeing all the windows of the coachmakers in Long Acre ablaze. "Think of your moors!" said Mr. Wortley to Clara. "Ah! but Clara likes this better," Mrs. Durrant laughed. "I don't know--really," said Clara, looking at the blazing windows. She started. She saw Jacob. "Who?" asked Mrs. Durrant sharply, leaning forward. But she saw no one. Under the arch of the Opera House large faces and lean ones, the powdered and the hairy, all alike were red in the sunset; and, quickened by the great hanging lamps with their repressed primrose lights, by the tramp, and the scarlet, and the pompous ceremony, some ladies looked for a moment into steaming bedrooms near by, where women with loose hair leaned out of windows, where girls--where children--(the long mirrors held the ladies suspended) but one must follow; one must not block the way. Clara's moors were fine enough. The Phoenicians slept under their piled grey rocks; the chimneys of the old mines pointed starkly; early moths blurred the heather-bells; cartwheels could be heard grinding on the road far beneath; and the suck and sighing of the waves sounded gently, persistently, for ever. Shading her eyes with her hand Mrs. Pascoe stood in her cabbage-garden looking out to sea. Two steamers and a sailing-ship crossed each other; passed each other; and in the bay the gulls kept alighting on a log, rising high, returning again to the log, while some rode in upon the waves and stood on the rim of the water until the moon blanched all to whiteness. Mrs. Pascoe had gone indoors long ago. But the red light was on the columns of the Parthenon, and the Greek women who were knitting their stockings and sometimes crying to a child to come and have the insects picked from its head were as jolly as sand-martins in the heat, quarrelling, scolding, suckling their babies, until the ships in the Piraeus fired their guns. The sound spread itself flat, and then went tunnelling its way with fitful explosions among the channels of the islands. Darkness drops like a knife over Greece. "The guns?" said Betty Flanders, half asleep, getting out of bed and going to the window, which was decorated with a fringe of dark leaves. "Not at this distance," she thought. "It is the sea." Again, far away, she heard the dull sound, as if nocturnal women were beating great carpets. There was Morty lost, and Seabrook dead; her sons fighting for their country. But were the chickens safe? Was that some one moving downstairs? Rebecca with the toothache? No. The nocturnal women were beating great carpets. Her hens shifted slightly on their perches. CHAPTER FOURTEEN