sing to himself and admire the sweet sorrow of his own cadence! An almost forgotten poem came into his head and fitted pleasantly to the air.
She said, "I've come to wait on you and keep your cabin clean;
To wash your face and hands and feet, and make your forehead cool—
I'll get you into Heaven yet, you Damned Old Fool!"
Something in this appealed nicely to his mood. He allowed himself an encore. His voice, rising behind the stove, got a good resonance. Then he heard a footfall, a door opening. Ah, he thought, Phyl has come down to say she's sorry for being so crude. Well, I'll let her speak first. I'm tired of always being the one to make advances.
He waited, industriously gathering crusts, though he felt that the posture of Lazarus was not advantageous. There was no word.
"Well," he said impatiently, "have you had enough of your funny business?"
He turned, and saw Nounou's amazed face in the aperture of the back door. With an incoherent murmur he rose, took his bottle, and stalked out of the kitchen.
