voice submerging the buzz of talk like the tide rushing in over a flat.
Without a word Mary dropped down beside him on the settee.

In the middle of a phrase the music stopped.

"A vous le tour!" they heard LaChaise say to Novelli. "Je ne suis pas
assez pianiste. Maintenant! Recommencons, n'est-ce-pas?"

The song resumed. March's frame stiffened.

"Oh night! do I not see my love fluttering out among the
breakers?
What is that little black thing I see there in the white?"

"Now then," March whispered. "Quicker! My God, can't they pick it up?"
Like an echo came LaChaise's "Plus vite! _Stringendo_, jusque au bout!"
and with a gasp the composer greeted the quickened tempo. Then as the
song swept to its first tempestuous climax he clutched Mary's arm.
"That's it," he cried. "Can't you see that's it?"

"Loud! loud! loud!
Loud I call to you, my love!
High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves,
Surely you must know who is here, is here,
You must know who I am, my love."

He let go her arm. The song went on.

"Low-hanging moon!
What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow?