Nordenholt’s hour was up and I began to feel that the old life was slipping away from me again. For a few minutes we sat silent; for she did not speak and I was afraid to reopen the conversation lest she should continue her line of thought. I watched her as she sat: the tiny shoe, the sweep of the black gown without a sparkle of jewellery to relieve it, the clean curves of her white throat, and over all the lustre of her hair. Would there be any place for all this in the new world? I wondered. Things would be too hard for her fragility, perhaps. As ten o’clock struck Nordenholt came in. He looked more cheerful than when he had left us, though as he dropped into a chair I noticed that he seemed to be physically tired. “Henley-Davenport asked me to make his excuses to you, Elsa. He wants to work out something which struck him when we were over at his laboratory; so I left him there.” He smoked for a while in silence, as though ruminating over what he had seen. “That’s a brave man if you want to see one,” he said at last. “From what he told me, there will be a terrible explosion the first time he manages to jar up his atomic powder-magazine; and yet he goes into the thing as coolly as though he were lighting a cigarette. I hope he pulls it off. More hangs on that than one can well estimate just now. It may be the last shot in our locker for all we know.” “But surely, Uncle Stanley, you have foreseen everything?” “I’m not omniscient, Elsa, though perhaps you have illusions on the point. I do what I can, but one must allow a good deal of latitude for the unpredictable which always exists. And in this affair, I am afraid the unpredictable will not be on the helping side. But don’t worry your head over that; we can’t help it. What’s wrong with you to-night. You look more worried than usual. Tired?” “Not specially.” “Would you sing to us a little?” “Only something very short, then.” She moved to the piano. “What do you want?” “Oh, let’s see.... I’d like.... No, you wouldn’t care for it. Let’s think again.” “No, no, Uncle Stanley; I’ll sing anything you wish,” she said, but when he asked for the second Song in Cymbeline, her brows contracted. “Must you have that one? Won’t the first song do instead?” “I’d rather have the other. Only the last two verses, for I see you are tired.” She sat down at the piano and played the preliminary chords. I had never heard the air, possibly it was an unusual setting. “_Fear no more the lightning flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must, Consign to thee, and come to dust._”