"Is it a trying journey to China?" Leonetta asked of Aubrey St. Maur, jerking her arm which was enlocked in his, as they turned away from the sight of the oily harbour water. "Hush!" said St. Maur, glancing ominously at Mrs. Delarayne, who was staggering along between Sir Joseph and Agatha Fearwell's father. "Poor Peachy seems very much upset, doesn't she?" "Yes, you see," Leonetta replied, "Henry always was her star turn." _VISITORS BY NIGHT_[2] _At that deep hour 'twixt midnight and the dawn, When silence and the darkness strive in vain For mastery, and Morpheus hath withdrawn His friendly ward, not to return again; Lo! Fancy's two-winged doorway wide doth yawn And uninvited guests arrive amain. A fateful suite they hover into sight-- They are the soul's dread visitors by night._ _First come brave Resolutions unfulfilled; With each his spouse, Ambition unattained. They have the furtive look of conscience skilled In palliating failures unexplained. Their lips are meek with pride that hath been killed And confidence that hath in sickness waned. Oh, steel thy heart, thou hapless, sleepless wight, Against these cheerless visitors by night._ _Then come thy throng of petty sins and great, Their sordid secrets branded on their brow. Still apprehensive of their darksome fate And craving safe concealment as they bow. What faithfulness they have to come so late When thou hadst half-forgotten them by now. Oh, for a virtue great enough to affright This ugly brood of visitors by night._ _But these are not the worst; there cometh last A green-clad lady, viperish and ill. Her bitter lips she biteth and right fast She grappleth with what spirit thou hast still. Her poisoned words transfix thee till aghast Thou marvellest such aching doth not kill. Her name is Jealousy, thou wretched wight; The cruellest of visitors by night._ _Then Fancy's two-winged doorway slow doth close. The birds begin to twitter and to sing. All nature waketh and on pointed toes Young truant Morpheus stealeth gently in. Oh, happiness of reinstalled repose, And balsam for thy cold and sweated skin! 'Twas worse than all the nightmares, blessed wight; This vigil with these visitors by night._ [Footnote 2: First published in _The New Age_, October 23, 1919.]