It's exquisitely awful, you know, to have a husband picked out
for you by dead folks, and I'm so sick about it sometimes that I hardly
have the heart to fix my back-hair. Let each of us forbear, and stop
teasing the other."
Greatly pleased by this perfectly intelligent and forgiving arrangement,
EDWIN DROOD says: "You're right, FLORA, Teasing is played out;" and
drives his ball into a perfect frenzy of bounces.
They have arrived near the Ritualistic church, through the windows of
which come the organ-notes of one practising within. Something familiar
in the grand air rolling out to them causes EDWIN DROOD to repeat,
abstractedly, "I feel--I feel--I feel---"
FLORA, simultaneously affected in the same way, unconsciously
murmurs,---"I feel like a morning star."
They then join hands, under the same irresistible spell, and take
dancing steps, humming, in unison, "Shoo, fly! don't bodder me."
"That's JACK BUMSTEAD'S playing," whispers EDWIN DROOD; "and he must be
breathing this way, too, for I can smell the cloves.
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