In the _entr'acte_ the
band sank its blare suddenly to a sort of 'Home, Sweet Home'
adagio, and after a minute of it Farrell put up a hand, covering
his eyes, and I saw the tears welling--yes, positively--between
his fingers. He's sentimental, of course.
"I asked what was the matter? He turned me a face like poor
Susan's when at the thrush's song she beheld:"
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide
And a river flow on through the vale of Cheapside.
He said pitiably that he wanted--that he wanted very much--to go
home; and gave as his reason that New York was too noisy for
him. . . . A sudden notion took me at this. 'If that's the
trouble,' I answered, 'one voice in this city shall cease its
small contribution to the din. . . . We will try,' I said,
'the sedative of silence.'
"For three days now I have been applying this treatment.
At breakfast, luncheon, dinner; in the street, at the theatre;
I sit or walk with him, saying never a word, silent as a shadow.
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