'Sit down,' said Hummil. 'I didn't know that you had any music in your composition. Go on playing until you can't think of anything more. I'll have that piano tuned up before you come again. Play something festive.'
Very simple indeed were the tunes to which Mottram's art and the limitations of the piano could give effect, but the men listened with pleasure, and in the pauses talked all together of what they had seen or heard when they were last at home. A dense dust-storm sprung up outside, and swept roaring over the house, enveloping it in the choking darkness of midnight, but Mottram continued unheeding, and the crazy tinkle reached the ears of the listeners above the flapping of the tattered ceiling-cloth.
In the silence after the storm he glided from the more directly personal songs of Scotland, half humming them as he played, into the Evening Hymn.
'Sunday,' said he, nodding his head.
'Go on. Don't apologize for it,' said Spurstow.
Hummil laughed long and riotously. 'Play it, by all means. You're full of surprises today. I didn't know you had such a gift of finished sarcasm. How does that thing go?'
Mottram took up the tune.
'Too slow by half. You miss the note of gratitude,' said Hummil. 'It ought to go to the "Grasshopper's Polka"—this way.' And he chanted, prestissimo,
'Glory to thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light.
That shows we really feel our blessings. How does it go on?—
'If in the night I sleepless lie,
My soul with sacred thoughts supply;
May no ill dreams disturb my rest,'—
