The truth lies, as usual, between the two extremes.

In spite of sorrow and suffering, Mrs.Crayford is the beautiful Mrs.Crayford still.
The delicious silence of the hour is softly disturbed by the voice of the younger lady in the garden.
"Go to the piano, Lucy.

It is a night for music.

Play something that is worthy of the night." Mrs.Crayford looks round at the clock on the mantelpiece.
"My dear Clara, it is past twelve! Remember what the doctor told you.
You ought to have been in bed an hour ago." "Half an hour, Lucy--give me half an hour more! Look at the moonlight on the sea.

Is it possible to go to bed on such a night as this?
Play something, Lucy--something spiritual and divine." Earnestly pleading with her friend, Clara advances toward the window.
She too has suffered under the wasting influences of suspense.