“Geraldine!” wailed the voice.  “Cruel, perjured Geraldine!”

“It was going on just like this,” whispered Mrs. Buzza, “when I came along.  I shut my eyes, and ran past as hard as I could; but my head was so full of voices and cries that I didn’t know if ’twas real or only my fancy.”

“Geraldine!” continued the voice.  “Oh! dig my grave—­my shroud prepare; for she was false as she was fair.  Geraldine, my Geraldine!”

“Moggridge, by all that’s holy!” cried Sam.

It was even so.  They advanced a few yards, and to the right of the road, beside a gate, they saw him.  The poet reclined limply against the hedge, and with his head propped upon a carpet-bag gazed dolefully into the moon’s face.

“Thou bid’st me,” he began again, “thou bid’st me think no more about thee; but, tell me, what is life without thee?  A scentless flower, a blighted—­”

At the sound of their footsteps he looked round, stared blankly into Sam’s face, and then, snatching up the carpet-bag, leapt to his feet and tore down the road as fast as he could go.

Sam paused.  They had reached the brow of the steeper descent, where the road takes a sudden determination, and plunges abruptly into the valley, Below, the roofs of the little town lay white and sparkling, and straight from a wreath of vapour the graceful tower of St. Symphorian leapt into the clearer heaven.  Beyond, a network of lights glimmered, like fire-flies, from the vessels at anchor in the harbour.  The Penpoodle Hill, on the further shore, wore a tranquil halo; and to the right, outside the harbour’s mouth, the grey sea was laced with silver.

“Did you ever see anything more lovely?”

Mrs. Buzza murmured the words with no desire to be answered.  It was the old Trojan formula, and there was peace in the sound of it.

“Do you know,” she cried, turning to Sam, “we were very happy before these people came.  We shall never be the same again—­never.  Sam, I feel as if our innocence had ended, Oh!  I am a wicked woman.  Look below, Sam dear, I have never thought of it before, but how sweet it would have been to have enclosed the old town in a ring-fence, and lived our days in quiet!  It is too late now; more will come, and they will build and alter, and no one will be able to stop it.  Even if these people should go, it will never be the same again.  Oh!  I am a sinful woman.”

Sam looked at his mother.  Something familiar, but hitherto half-comprehended, spoke to him in her words.  He drew her arm once more within his own, and they descended the hill together.

Stealing like ghosts into the front hall of No. 2, Alma Villas, they were startled to perceive the dining-room door ajar, and a light shining out into the passage.  Creeping forward on tip-toe, they peeped in.

Beside the table and with his back towards them, sat the Admiral in his dressing-gown.  His right hand grasped the throat of the double-bass, on the top of which nodded Mrs. Buzza’s night-cap.  His left fumbled with a large miniature that lay on the table before him—­a portrait of Mrs. Buzza, taken in the days when she was still Emily Rogers and the Belle of Portsmouth; and from this to the instrument and back again the Admiral’s gaze wandered, as if painfully comparing the likeness.