The Colonel sought to turn the conversation away from the profundities of Calvinistic theology into the lighter vein of neighbourly gossip. But Gaspard had imbibed enough from his bottle to be unreasonably fixed in his own opinion of what was seemly in his house on a Sunday afternoon. Moreover, it gave him an unholy joy to see Sleeman flounder among ideas far beyond his comprehension and squirm under the forebodings of an uneasy conscience. As the afternoon passed, Gaspard became less controlled and more provocative and unpleasant in his goading of Sleeman, till the Colonel began to fear a violent rupture between the two. He became conscious also of a consuming anxiety in Paul, mingled with a certain sense of humiliation for his father. Once and again he caught an appealing look in the boy’s eyes, till he could bear it no longer. “Sleeman, it is quite time we were going home, you and I.” Gaspard made loud and indignant protest. “Nonsense, Pelham! You don’t come so often. Sit down, man.” “No, we must go. And you are needing rest too, Gaspard. You want sleep.” “Sleep!” shouted Gaspard. “Sleep! Ha! ha! Yes, I need sleep. But shall I sleep? ‘To sleep, perhaps to dream! Ah, there’s the rub!’ The old boy knew what he was talking about. But I know better. Sit down, Sleeman. Don’t leave me, Colonel. Sit down—Ah, yes, Paul will play for you, and then perhaps, who knows? I may sleep. Play, Paul! Play, boy! Play! Play!” He was growing terribly excited. “All right, Daddy. Listen to this. I call it ‘Asleep in the Woods.’ You’ll get it. You’ll hear all the things.” The boy was excited, too, almost beyond control. He ran to the piano, struck a few crashing chords, then allowed his fingers to rush up and down the keyboard in a perfect fury of sounds, gradually passing into a more moderate tempo and a more melodious theme, till he fell into a movement rich in tone colour, dreamy in motif, varied in phrase, which might well suggest night’s many tender moods in the great out-of-doors.