Harding, too, was in good spirits. He was all patriotism and full of courteous consideration for his friends. So heartened was he that, after tea, at the suggestion of Bingham, he sat down to the piano to sing a duet with his wife. This was also a sort of touching example of British respectability with a dash of "go" in it! Bingham was turning over some music. "What shall it be, Tina?" asked Harding, whose repertoire was limited. "This!" said Bingham, and he placed on the piano in front of Hording the duet from "Becket." The room was crowded, khaki prevailing. "All the women are workers," Mrs. Harding had explained. Gwendolen Scott was there, of course, still conscious of the ten-shilling note in the pocket of her coat. Mrs. Potten had gone, along with the Buckinghamshire collar, just as if neither had ever existed. Boreham was there, talking to one or two men in khaki, because he could not get near May Dashwood. She had now somehow got wedged into a corner over which Bingham was standing guard. At the door the Warden had just made his appearance. He had got no further than the threshold, for he saw his hostess about to sing and would not advance to disturb her. From where he stood May Dashwood could be plainly seen, and Bingham stooping with his hands on his knees, making an inaudible remark to her. The remark that gentleman was actually making was: "You'll have a treat presently--the greatest surprise in your life." Mrs. Harding stood behind her husband. She was dressed with strict regard to the last fashion. Dressing in each fashion as it came into existence she used to call quite prettily, "the simple truth about it." Since the war she called it frankly and seriously "the true economy." Her face usually expressed a superior self-assurance, and now it wore also a look of indulgent amiability. Her whole appearance suggested a happy peacock with its tail spread, and the surprise which Bingham predicted came when she opened her mouth and, instead of emitting screams in praise of diamonds and of Paris hats (as one would have expected), she piped in a small melancholy voice the following pathetic inquiry-- "Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear in the pine overhead?" And then came Harding's growling baritone, avoiding any mention of cigars or cocktails and making answer-- "No! but the noise of the deep as it hollows the cliffs of the land." Mrs. Harding-- "Is there a voice coming up with the voice of the deep from the strand, One coming up with the song in the flush of the glimmering red?" Mr. Harding-- "Love that is born of the deep coming up with the sun from the sea." Bingham was convulsed with inward laughter. May tried to smile a little--at the incongruity of the singers and the words they sang; but her thoughts were all astray. The Warden was here--so near!