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Maurice Guest [Henry Handel Richardson].txt

Maurice Guest [Henry Handel Richardson].txt

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Part I S'amor non e che dunque e quel ch'io sento? Ma s'egli e amor, per Dio, che cosa e quale? PETRARCH


One noon in 189-, a young man stood in front of the new Gewandhaus in Leipzig, and watched the neat, grass-laid square, until then white and silent in the sunshine, grow dar with many figures. The public rehearsal of the wee ly concert was just over, and, from the half light of the warm-coloured hall, which for more than two hours had held them secluded, some hundreds of people hastened, with renewed anticipation, towards sunlight and street sounds. There was a medley of tongues, for many nationalities were represented in the crowd that surged through the ground-floor and out of the glass doors, and much noisy ado, for the majority was made up of young people, at an age that enjoys the sound of its own voice. In blac , diverging lines they poured through the heavy swinging doors, which flapped ceaselessly to and fro, never quite closing, always opening afresh, and on descending the shallow steps, they told off into groups, where all tal ed at once, with lively gesticulation. A few faces had the strained loo that indicates the conscientious listener; but most of these young musicians were under the influence of a stimulant more potent than wine, which manifested itself in a nervous garrulity and a nervous mirth. They hummed li e bees before a hive. Maurice Guest, who had come out among the first, lingered to watch a scene that was new to him, of which he was as yet an onloo er only. Here and there came a member of the orchestra; with violin-case or blac -swathed wind-instrument in hand, he deftly threaded his way through the throng, bestowing, as he went, a hasty nod of greeting upon a colleague, a sweep of the hat on an obsequious pupil. The crowd began to disperse and to overflow in the surrounding streets. Some of the stragglers loitered to swell the group that was forming round the bac entrance to the building; here the lan -haired Belgian violinist would appear, the wonders of whose technique had sent thrills of enthusiasm through his hearers, and whose close proximity would presently affect them in precisely the










same way. Others again made off, not for the town, with its prosaic suggestion of wor and confinement, but for the freedom of the woods that lay beyond. Maurice Guest followed them. It was a blowy day in early spring. Round white masses of cloud moved lightly across a deep blue s y, and the trees, still thin and na ed, bent their heads and shoo their branches, as if to elude the gambols of a boisterous playfellow. The sun shone vividly, with restored power, and though the clouds sometimes passed over his very face, the shadows only lasted for a moment, and each returning radiance seemed brighter than the one before. In the pure breath of the wind, as it gustily swept the earth, was a promise of things vernal, of the tender beauties of a coming spring; but there was still a een, delightful freshness in the air, a vague reminder of frosty starlights and serene white snow--the untrodden snow of deserted, moon-lit streets--that quic ened the blood, and sent a craving for movement through the veins. The people who trod the broad, clean roads and the paths of the wood wal ed with a spring in their steps; voices were light and high, and each breath that was drawn increased the sense of buoyancy, of undiluted satisfaction. With these bursts of golden sunshine, so other than the pallid gleamings of the winter, came a fresh impulse to life; and the most insensible was dimly conscious how much had to be made up for, how much lived into such a day. Maurice Guest wal ed among the mossgreen tree-trun s, each of which vied with the other in the brilliancy of its coating. He was under the sway of a twofold intoxication: great music and a day rich in promise. From the flood of melody that had bro en over him, the frenzied storms of applause, he had come out, not into a lamplit dar ness that would have crushed his elation bac upon him and hemmed it in, but into the spacious lightness of a fair blue day, where all that he felt could expand, as a flower does in the sun. His wal brought him to a broad stream, which flashed through the wood li e a line of light. He paused on a suspension bridge, and leaning over the railing, gazed up the river into the distance, at the horizon and its trees, delicate and feathery in their na edness against the s y. Swollen with recent rains and snows, the water came hurrying towards him--the storm-bed of the little river, which, meandering in from the country, through pleasant woods, in ever narrowing curves, ran through the town as a small stream, to be swelled again on the outs irts by the waters of two other rivers, which joined it at right angles. The bridge trembled at first, when other people crossed it, on their way to the woods that lay on the further side, but soon the last stragglers vanished, and he was alone. As he loo ed about, eager to discover beauty in the strip of landscape that stretched before him--the line of water, its ban s of leafless trees--he was instinctively filled with a desire for something grander, for a feature in the scene that would answer to his mood. There, where the water appeared to end in a clump of trees, there, should be mountains, a gently undulating line, blue with the unapproachable blue of distance, and high enough to form a bac ground to the view; in sumer, heavy with haze, melting into the s y; in winter, lined and edged with snow. From this, his thoughts sprang bac to the music he had heard that morning. All the vague yet eager hopes that had run riot in his brain, for months past, seemed to have been summed up and made clear to him, in one supreme phrase of it, a great phrase in C




















major, in the concluding movement of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. First sounded by the shrill sweet winds, it had suddenly been given out by the strings, in magnificient unison, and had mounted up and on, to the jubilant trilling of the little flutes. There was such a courageous sincerity in this theme, such undauntable resolve; it expressed more plainly than words what he intended his life of the next few years to be; for he was full to the brim of ambitious intentions, which he had never yet had a chance of putting into practice. He felt so ready for wor , so fresh and unworn; the fervour of a deep enthusiasm was rampant in him. What a single-minded devotion to art, he promised himself his should be! No other fancy or interest should share his heart with it, he vowed that to himself this day, when he stood for the first time on historic ground, where the famous musicians of the past had found inspiration for their immortal wor s. And his thoughts spread their wings and circled above his head; he saw himself already of these masters' craft, their art his, he wrenching ever new secrets from them, penetrating the recesses of their genius, becoming one of themselves. In a vision as vivid as those that cross the brain in a sleepless night, he saw a dar , compact multitude wait, with breath suspended, to catch the notes that fell li e raindrops from his fingers; saw himself the all-conspicuous figure, as, with masterful gestures, he compelled the soul that lay dormant in brass and strings, to give voice to, to interpret to the many, his subtlest emotions. And he was overcome by a tremulous compassion with himself at the idea of wielding such power over an un nown multitude, at the latent nobility of mind and aim this power implied. Even when swinging bac to the town, he had not sha en himself free of dreams. The quiet of a foreign midday lay upon the streets, and there were few discordant sounds, few passers-by, to brea the chain of his thought. He had movememt, silence, space. And as is usual with active-brained dreamers, he had little or no eye for the real life about him; he was not struc by the air of comfortable prosperity, of thriving content, which mar ed the great commercial centre, and he let pass, unnoticed, the unfamiliar details of a foreign street, the trifling yet significant incidents of foreign life. Such impressions as he received, bore the stamp of his own mood. He was sensible, for instance, in face of the picturesque houses that clustered together in the centre of the town, of the spiritual GEMUTLICHKEIT, the absence of any pomp or pride in their romantic past, which characterises the old buildings of a German town. These quaint and stately houses, wedged one into the other, with their many storeys, their steeply sloping roofs and eye-li e roof-windows, were still in sympathetic touch with the trivial life of the day which swarmed in and about them. He wandered leisurely along the narrow streets that ran at all angles off the Mar et Place, one side of which was formed by the gabled RATHAUS, with its ground-floor row of busy little shops; and, in fancy, he peopled these streets with the renowned figures that had once wal ed them. He loo ed up at the dar old houses in which great musicians had lived, died and been born, and he saw faces that he recognised lean out of the projecting windows, to watch the life and bustle below, to catch the last sunbeam that filtered in; he saw them ta e their daily wal along these very streets, in the antiquated garments of their time. They passed him by, shadeli e and misanthropic, and seemed to steal down the opposite side, to avoid his too pertinent gaze. Bluff, preoccupied, his een eyes lowered, the burly Cantor passed, as he had once done day after day, with the disciplined regularity of high genius, of the honest citizen, to his appointed wor in the shadows of the organ-loft; behind him, one who had pointed to the giant with a new burst of ardour, the genial little improviser, whose triumphs had



















been those of this town, whose fascinating gifts and still more fascinating personality, had made him the lion of his age. And it was only another step in this train of half-conscious thought, that, before a large lettered poster, which stood out blac and white against the reds and yellows of the circular advertisement-column, and bore the word "Siegfried," Maurice Guest should not merely be filled with the anticipation of a world of beauty still unexplored, but that the world should stand to him for a symbol, as it were, of the easeful and luxurious side of a life dedicated to art--of a world-wide fame; the society of princes, ings; the gloss of velvet; the dull glow of gold.--And again, tapering vistas opened up, through which he could peer into the future, happy in the nowledge, that he stood firm in a present which made all things possible to a holy zeal, to an unhesitating grasp. But it was growing late, and he slowly retraced his steps. In the restaurant into which he turned for dinner, he was the only customer. The principal business of the day was at an end; two waiters sat dozing in corners, and a man behind the counter, who was washing metal-topped beer-glasses, had almost the whole pile polished bright before him. Maurice Guest sat down at a table by the window; and, when he had finished his dinner and lighted a cigarette, he watched the passers-by, who crossed the pane of glass li e the figures in a moving photograph. Suddenly the door opened with an energetic clic , and a lady came in, enveloped in an old-fashioned, circular cloa , and carrying on one arm a pile of paper-covered music. This, she laid on the table next that at which the young man was sitting, then too off her hat. When she had also hung up the unbecoming cloa , he saw that she was young and slight. For the rest, she seemed to bring with her, into the warm, tranquil atmosphere of the place, heavy with midday musings, a breath of wind and outdoor freshness--a suggestion that was heightened by the quic decisiveness of her movements: the bris ness with which she divested herself of her wrappings, the quic smooth of the hair on either side, the business-li e way in which she drew up her chair to the table and unfolded her nap in. She seemed to be no stranger there, for, on her entrance, the younger and more active waiter had at once sprung up with officious haste, and almost before she was ready, the little table was newly spread and set, and the dinner of the day before her. She spo e to the man in a friendly way as she too her seat, and he replied with a pleased and smiling respect. Then she began to eat, deliberately, and with an overemphasised nicety. As she carried her soup-spoon to her lips, Maurice Guest felt that she was observing him; and throughout the meal, of which she ate but little, he was aware of a peculiarly straight and penetrating gaze. It ended by disconcerting him. Bec oning the waiter, he went through the business of paying his bill, and this done, was about to push bac his chair and rise to his feet, when the man, in gathering up the money, addressed what seemed to be a question to him. Fearful lest he had made a mista e in the strange coinage, Maurice loo ed up apprehensively. The waiter repeated his words, but the slight nervousness that gained on the young man made him incapable of separating the syllables, which were indistinguishably blurred. He coloured, stuttered, and felt mortally uncomfortable, as, for the third time, the waiter repeated his remar , with the utmost slowness.




















"Excuse me," she said, and smiled. "The waiter only said he thought you must be a stranger here: DER HERR IST GEWISS FREMD IN LEIPZIG?" Her rather prominent teeth were visible as she spo e. Maurice, who understood instantly her pronunciation of the words, was not set any more at his ease by her explanation. "Than s very much." he said, still redder than usual. "I . . . er . . . thought the fellow was saying something about the money."

"No. I only arrived this morning." At this, she opened her eyes wide. "Why, you are a courageous person!" she said and laughed, but did not explain what she meant, and he did not li e to as her. A cup of coffee was set on the table before her; she held a lump of sugar in her spoon, and watched it grow brown and dissolve. "Are you going to ma e a long stay?" she as ed, to help him over his embarrassment. "Two years, I hope," said the young man. "Music?" she queried further, and, as he replied affirmatively: "Then the Con. of course?"--an enigmatic question that needed to be explained. "You're piano, are you not?" she went on. "I thought so. It is hardly possible to mista e the hands"--here she just glanced at her own, which, large, white, and well formed, were lying on the table. "With strings, you now, the right hand is as a rule shoc ingly defective." He found the high clearness of her voice very agreeable after the deep roundnesses of German, and could have gone on listening to it. But she was brushing the crumbs from her s irt, preparatory to rising. "Are you an old resident here?" he queried in the hope of detaining her. "Yes, quite. I'm at the end of my second year; and don't now whether to be glad or sorry," she answered. "Time goes li e a flash.--Now, loo here, as one who nows the ways of the place, would you let me give you a piece of advice? Yes?--It's this. You intend to enter the Conservatorium, you say. Well, be sure you get under a good man--that's half the battle. Try and play privately to either Schwarz or Bendel. If you go in for the public examination with all the rest, the people in the BUREAU will put you to anyone they li e, and that is disastrous. Choose your own master, and beard him in his den beforehand." "Yes . . . and you recommend? May I as whom you are with?" he said eagerly. "Schwarz is my master; and I couldn't wish for a better. But Bendel is good, too, in his way, and is much sought after by the Americans--you're not American, are you? No.--Well, the English colony runs the American close nowadays. We're a regular army. If you don't




"And the Saxon dialect is barbarous, isn't it?" she added perhaps you have not had much experience of it yet."


At this point, the girl at the adjacent table put down her for , and leaned slightly forward.

nife and
















indly. "But

want to, you need hardly mix with foreigners as long as you're here. We have our clubs and balls and other social functions--and our geniuses--and our masters who spea English li e natives . . . But there!--you'll soon now all about it yourself." She nodded pleasantly and rose. "I must be off," she said. "To-day every minute is precious. That wretched PROBE spoils the morning, and directly it is over, I have to rush to an organ-lesson--that's why I'm here. For I can't expect a PENSION to eep dinner hot for me till nearly three o'cloc --can I? Morning rehearsals are a mista e. What?--you were there, too? Really?--after a night in the train? Well, you didn't get much, did you, for your energy? A dull aria, an overture that 'belongs in the theatre,' as they say here, an indifferently played symphony that one has heard at least a dozen times. And for us poor pianists, not a fresh dish this season. Nothing but yesterday's remains heated up again." She laughed as she spo e, and Maurice Guest laughed, too, not being able at the moment to thin of anything to say. Getting the better of the waiter, who stood by, nap in on arm, smiling and officious, he helped her into the unbecoming cloa ; then too up the parcel of music and opened the door. In his manner of doing this, there may have been a touch of over-readiness, for no sooner was she outside, than she quietly too the music from him, and, without even offering him her hand, said a friendly but curt good-bye: almost before he had time to return it, he saw her hurrying up the street, as though she had never vouchsafed him word or thought. The abruptness of the dismissal left him breathless; in his imagination, they had wal ed at least a strip of the street together. He stepped off the pavement into the road, that he might eep her longer in sight, and for some time he saw her head, in the close-fitting hat, bobbing along above the heads of other people. On turning again, he found that the waiter was watching him from the window of the restaurant, and it seemed to the young man that the pale, servile face wore a malicious smile. With the feeling of disconcertion that springs from being caught in an impulsive action we have believed unobserved, Maurice spun round on his heel and too a few quic steps in the opposite direction. When once he was out of range of the window, however, he dropped his pace, and at the next corner stopped altogether. He would at least have li ed to now her name. And what in all the world was he to do with himself now? Clouds had gathered; the airy blue and whiteness of the morning had become a level sheet of grey, which wiped the colour out of everything; the wind, no longer tempered by the sun, was chilly, as it whirled down the narrow streets and frea ed about the corners. There was little temptation now to linger on one's steps. But Maurice Guest was loath to return to the solitary room that stood to him for home, to shut himself up with himself, inside four walls: and turning up his coat collar, he began to wal slowly along the curved GRIMMAISCHESTRASSE. But the streets were by this time blac with people, most of whom came hurrying towards him, bris and bustling, and gay, in spite of the prevailing dullness, at the prospect of the warm, familiar evening. He was continually obliged to step off the pavement into the road, to allow a bunch of merry, chattering girls, their chee s coloured by the wind beneath the dar fur of their

























hats, or a line of gaudy capped, thic set students, to pass him by, unbro en; and it seemed to him that he was more frequently off the pavement than on it. He began to feel disconsolate among these jovial people, who were hastening forward, with such spirit, to some end, and he had not gone far, before he turned down a side street to be out of their way. Vaguely damped by his environment, which, with the sun's retreat, had lost its charm, he gave himself up to his own thoughts, and was soon busily engaged in thin ing over all that had been said by his quondam acquaintance of the dinner-table, in inventing neatly turned phrases and felicitous replies. He wal ed without aim, in a leisurely way down quiet streets, quic ly across big thoroughfares, and paid no attention to where he was going. The falling dar ness made the quaint streets loo strangely ali e; it gave them, too, an air of fantastic unreality: the dar old houses, marshalled in rows on either side, stood as if lost in contemplation, in the saddening dus . The lighting of the street-lamps, which started one by one into existence, and the conflict with the fading daylight of the uneasily beating flame, that was swept from side to side in the wind li e a woman's hair--these things made his surroundings seem still shadowier and less real. He was roused from his reverie by finding himself on what was apparently the outs irts of the town. With much difficulty he made his way bac , but he was still far from certain of his whereabouts, when an unexpected turn to the right brought him out on the spacious AUGUSTUSPLATZ, in front of the New Theatre. He had been in this square once already, but now its appearance was changed. The big buildings that flan ed it were lit up; the file of drosch es waiting for fares, under the bare trees, formed a dotted line of lights. A double row of hanging lamps before the CAFE FRANCAIS made the corner of the GRIMMAISCHESTRASSE dazzling to the eyes; and now, too, the massive white theatre was awa e as well. Lights shone from all its high windows, streamed out through the Corinthian columns and low-porched doorways. Its festive air was inviting, after his twilight wanderings, and he went across the square to it. Immediately before the theatre, early corners stood in nots and chatted; programme--and text-vendors cried and sold their wares; people came hurrying from all directions, as to a magnet; hastily they ascended the low steps and disappeared beneath the portico. He watched until the last late-comer had vanished. Only he was left; he again was the outsider. And now, as he stood there in the deserted square, which, a moment before, had been so animated, he had a sudden sin ing of the heart: he was seized by that acute sense of desolation that lies in wait for one, caught by nightfall, alone in a strange city. It stirs up a wild longing, not so much for any particular spot on earth, as for some familiar hand or voice, to ta e the edge off an intolerable loneliness. He turned and wal ed rapidly bac to the small hotel near the railway station, at which he was staying until he found lodgings. He was tired out, and for the first time became thoroughly conscious of this; but the depression that now closed in upon him, was not due to fatigue alone, and he new it. In sane moments--such as the present--when neither excitement nor enthusiasm warped his judgment, he was under no illusion about himself; and as he strode through the dar ness, he admitted that, all day long, he had been cheating himself in the usual way. He understood perfectly that it was by no means a matter of merely stretching out his hand, to pluc what he would, from this tree that waved before him; he reminded himself with some bitterness that
























he stood, an unheralded stranger, before a solidly compact body of things and people on which he had not yet made any impression. It was the old story: he played at expecting a ready capitulation of the whole--gods and men--and, at the same time, was only too well aware of the laborious process that was his sole means of entry and fellowship. Again--to instance another of his mental follies--the pains he had been at to ta e possession of the town, to ma e it respond to his forced interpretation of it! In reality, it had repelled him--yes, he was chilled to the heart by the aloofness of this foreign town, to which not a single tie yet bound him. By the light of a fluttering candle, in the dingy hotel bedroom, he sat and wrote a letter, briefly announcing his safe arrival. About to close the envelope, he hesitated, and then, unfolding the sheet of paper again, added a few lines to what he had written. These cost him more trouble than all the rest. ONCE MORE, HEARTY THANKS TO YOU BOTH, MY DEAR PARENTS, FOR LETTING ME HAVE MY OWN WAY. I HOPE YOU WILL NEVER HAVE REASON TO REGRET IT. ONE THING, AT LEAST, I CAN PROMISE YOU, AND THAT IS, THAT NOT A DAY OF MY TIME HERE SHALL BE WASTED OR MISSPENT. YOU HAVE NOT, I KNOW, THE SAME FAITH IN ME THAT I HAVE MYSELF, AND THIS HAS OFTEN BEEN A BITTER THOUGHT TO ME. BUT ONLY HAVE PATIENCE. SOMETHING STRONGER THAN MYSELF DROVE ME TO IT, AND IF I AM TO SUCCEED ANYWHERE, IT WILL BE HERE. AND I MEAN TO SUCCEED, IF HUMAN WILL CAN DO IT. He threw himself on the crea ing wooden bed and tried to sleep. But his brain was active, and the street was noisy; people tal ed late in the adjoining room, and trod heavily in the one above. It was long after midnight before the house was still and he fell into an uneasy sleep. Towards morning, he had a strange dream, from which he wa ened in a cold sweat. Once more he was wandering through the streets, as he had done the previous day, apparently in search of something he could not find. But he did not now himself what he sought. All of a sudden, on turning a corner, he came upon a crowd of people gathered round some object in the road, and at once said to himself, this is it, here it is. He could not, however, see what it actually was, for the people, who were muttering to themselves in angry tones, strove to eep him bac . At all costs, he felt, he must get nearer to the mysterious thing, and, in a spirit of bravado, he was pushing through the crowd to reach it, when a great clamour arose; every one sprang bac , and fled wildly, shrie ing: "Moloch, Moloch!" He did not now in the least what it meant, but the very strangeness of the word added to the horror, and he, too, fled with the rest; fled blindly, desperately, up streets and down, watched, it seemed to him, from every window by a cold, malignant eye, but never daring to turn his head, lest he should see the awful thing behind him; fled on and on, through streets that grew ever vaguer and more shadowy, till at last his feet would carry him no further: he san down, with a loud cry, san down, down, down, and wa ened to find that he was sitting up in bed, clammy with fear, and that dawn was stealing in at the sides of the window.
















Maurice Guest loo ed bac on the four years he had just come through. And as it is in the nature of things that no one is less lenient towards romantic longings than he who has suffered disappointment in them. he had begun his training as a teacher. he received a small post in the school at which his father taught. opposition. Want of sympathy in his home-life blunted the finer edges of his nature. he turned his bac on the visions that had haunted his youth: afterwards. When. had been a prey to certain dreams and wishes. and be vaguely grateful for. It was characteristic of the man that he chose the way of least resistance. li e water from a spout after a rain-shower. and it was only later. Maurice Guest had nown days of this ind. too. and as soon as he had learnt how to instil his own half-digested nowledge into the minds of others. when white clouds sailed swiftly. in a word. and soft spring breezes were hastening past. but would never now. secretly cherished a wish to send the boy to study at the neighbouring university. was one of those cheerless. one by one. who has failed to transmute them into reality. on a mild night. in this case. The days drip past. when he was engrossed heart and soul in congenial wor . where thought never swings itself above the material interests of the day gone. and he was forced to ma e a choice between them. more or less improvidently.But Maurice Guest had a more tenacious hold on life. the son's first tentative leanings to a wider life. to wander through foreign countries. all things seemed to be ma ing for some place. that came in the train of the years. the ideal beauty of life. on the part of the father than of the mother. drove them ever further into the bac ground. when. to strap on a napsac and be gone. the most pressing material needs died down. too. the joys and experiences of the WANDERJAHRE. lighthearted. all that he dreamed of. the more unfavourable did circumstances seem. to see strange cities and hear strange tongues. for example. though less decisive. he watched the moon scudding a silvery. and the dull monotony of them benumbs all wholesome temerity at its core. but the dreams and ambitions had died. And as the present continually pushed the realisation of his dreams into the future. of a gentle and yielding disposition. then a poor teacher in a small provincial town. reedy tones he drew from it. to ma e a scholar of his eldest son. was unconsciously filled with the desire to taste. For he presently came to a place in his life where two paths diverged. that he began to recognise. so. it is true. the spirit of order with which they had familiarised   In Maurice Guest. across which never passes a breath of the great gladness. The latter had.                                       . never to come again. cloud-fla ed s y. un nown. middle-class homes. where he was not. he satisfied the immediate thirst of his soul by playing the flute. was seized with a desire to be moving. but the longer he waited. and by breathing into the thin. for some time. afar-off. After years of unhesitating toil. As a young man. met with a more deeply-rooted. irresponsible. the cares. his father. The home in which he grew up. and the idea finally died before it was born. great and small. the day to come. it might be said that the smouldering unrest of two generations burst into flame. before settling down to face the matter-of-factnesss of life. then he. and having married. which harmonised ill with the conditions of his life. and existence grows as timid and trivial as the petty griefs and pleasures that intersperse it. with bitterness. For before the ir someness of the school-bench was well behind him. he too on the commonplace colour of his surroundings.

which is latent in every more or less artistic nature. sternly observant of her daily tas . too slight for self-confidence. Away!--to go out into the world and be a musican--that was his longing and his dream. for it was not one of those talents which. as he was only too eenly aware. and allowed them to rise up and ta e shape before him.him. such an entire want of faith in the powers he was yearning to test--the prophet's lot in the mean blindness of the family--that. and overthrown. he could not separate the one from the other. In the months that followed. again. And. the son's choice of a calling which she held to be unfitting. was something of a tragedy. it was to some extent as means to an end. Maurice learnt that the censure hardest to meet is that which is never put into words.--But before the winter drew to a close he was away. And he never came to quite an honest understanding with himself on this point. which gained him the only notice he received at school. and.                                 . Yet had anyone. he should demand fresh efforts from them. careworn mother. too deep for speech. it is true. and he easily pic ed out his notes. At first. it threatened to sha e his hard-won faith in himself. but her lips were compressed to a thin line. who surrounded himself with an unscalable wall of indifference. his inadequacy and distaste for a tas that grew day by day more painful. a pardonably human sense of aggrievedness that the eldest-born should cross their plans and wishes. although he himself was but vaguely conscious of the fact. What was art to them but an empty name. he could not recall them without an aversion that was almost physical: this machine-li e regularity. and her face reflected the anger that burnt in her heart. from the beginning. She allowed no item of her duty to escape her. at length. he was mastered by a healthier spirit of self-assertion. more obstacles to overcome than he. he was only enabled to stand firm by summoning to his aid all the strengthening egoism. to be bowled over li e so many ninepins? When. undemonstrative father. it was invariably in this order that they did so. gifted with an instinctive feeling for the value and significance of tones--as a child he sang by ear in a small. most harassing of all and most invulnerable. which refuses to argue or discuss: he chafed inwardly against the unspo en opposition that will not come out to be grappled with. in its disregard of mood and feeling. that. after the year-long care and thought they had bestowed on him. the jarring contact with automaton-li e people. and moved about the house as usual. But when he weighed them. In reality. But the necessary insight into his powers had first to be gained. he clutched--li e a drowning man who seizes upon a spar--clutched and held fast to his talent. there was more to be faced than a mere determined aversion to the independence with which he had struc out: there was. His own nowledge was so hesitating. the true reality had come to be success or failure in the struggle for bread. when his eyes had been opened to its presence. just too much and too fresh to allow him to generalise with the unthin ing assurance that was demanded of him. He was. in the course of a single-handed battle with life. To the mother. at times. this hard-faced. that. strut their little world with the assurance of the peacoc . had something of a divine callousness to human stirrings. about whose mouth the years had traced deep lines. which. he as ed himself. in his efforts to set himself free? This silent. and doggedly resolve to put an end to it. and for whom. in the first place. after much heartburning and conscientious scrupling. which made him rebel against the uselessness of the conflict. in her honest narrowness. so uncertain. a pastime for the drones and idlers of existence? How could he set up his ambitions before them. for desire and dream were interwoven in his mind. sweet voice.

by degrees. Life had been against him. Then followed months when the phantom of discontent stal ed large through Maurice's life. which had belonged to his mother as a girl. Maurice was ept close at his school-boo s. indeed. she had sung in a high. with the years that passed. day by day more tangible. for himself. sil -faced piano. long ago. on the old-fashioned. Maurice would cover the intervening miles for the pleasure of a few hours' conversation with this new friend. boyli e. a small. the resolve was strongest. and. matters remained. and at which he seemed to be loo ing out as at a fading shore--it had been his intention to perfect himself as a pianist. grew almost intolerable. that Maurice wal ed through a drizzling rain to the neighbouring cathedral town. the air of which was saturated with tobacco-smo e. but how. for want of incentive. in a few months. that he went through a course of instruction with a local teacher of music. restless summer evenings. and only a spar was needed to set his resolve ablaze. grew.and taught himself little pieces. where he found it easy to earn enough for his needs. halting. In the interval between the parts. the tinsel of transcription. attained so creditable a proficiency. dismissed preliminaries with the assurance of his ind. they wal ed a part of the way together. with the end of his schooldays in sight. more easily defined. he learned. who was leaning forward. that is. broad. and. to attend a performance of ELIJAH. It was only when. in a sense of opposition: then the desire to have finished with the life he new. But here. in the eyes of the world. and since then. when the performance was over. or loo ed out across a stretch of low. And so. after this. whose destiny it is to imitate and vulgarise the strivings of genius. alternately sha ing and nodding his head. the story of the old musician's life: how. It was one evening when the summer had already dragged itself to a close. and found so much to say. that was lost to sight on the horizon as a tapering line. his hands hanging between his nees and his eyes fixed on the floor. and initiated his pupil into all that is false and meretricious in the literature of the piano--the cheaply pathetic. shrill voice. interrogative on his companion's. carried away by the volumes of sound. but for an increased agility of finger. and at which. in his youth--that youth of which he spo e with a far-away tone in his voice. They were those of the pianist. he gave up all his spare time to it. who. strong and supple. the titillating melancholy of Slavonic dance-music--to leave him. old man. he was putting away childish things. he had chosen that his life should he a failure--a failure. and where his position was below that of a dancing-master. wizened. It was the first important musical experience of his life. for there came the long. when. he had drifted into the midst of this provincial population. white country road. he had no ambition to distinguish himself in a field so different from that in which his comrades won their spurs. the sentimental songs of her youth. poverty and ill-heath ept him down. when his wee 's wor was behind him. that it became apparent to his neighbour. that he seriously turned his attention to the piano and his hands. the very placidity of which made heart and blood throb quic er. and the new occupation soon engrossed him deeply. and. the unattainable. he had come to see that his place would only have been among the multitude of little talents. they exchanged a few words. in the early days of her marriage. when it seemed as if a tranquil dar ness would never fall and bar off the distant. In a small. he repressed his agitation so ill. luxuriant meadows. he judged                                             . scenting talent. to swell the over-huge mass of mediocrity. excited on Maurice's part. and as he followed some flat. not a whit further forward than he had found him. dar room. that often. some thirty years previously.

the brave. and days of fruitful. But. the most inseparable friends had. unreal brightness. Failure! success!--what WAS success. of great theatre performances at which he had assisted. Mozart a genius of many parts. the piano was opened. he alone was at one with himself. untrammelled progress. The truth that could be extracted from words was such a fluctuating. and the gay. who never wavered. after all this. Sonatas. were hammered out with tremendous force and precision on the harsh. to that better part in art. and made uncertain efforts at appreciation. never yielding jot or tittle to the world's opinion. with short hoarse chuc les of pleasure and reminiscence. soon forgotten. he had seen life.otherwise. and then. Under the spell of these reminiscences. with so much ardour (and oftenest what he had to tell was a modest mediocrity). and all were dominated ali e by the hoarse voice of the old man. and had the conversation been s ilfully set agoing in this direction. li e that of sunset upon distant hills. once parted. here he learned that Bach and Beethoven were giants. from which the countless pric s and stings that ma e up reality have faded. and he who was proudly conscious of having succeeded thus. he forgot his companion altogether. but a clinging fast. his life alone was a harmonious whole. in vague histories of those who had borne these names. And the bluish smo e sent upwards as he tal ed. meditative idleness. and gazed long and silently before him. and tell him of this shadowy past. At moments. of nights sleepless with holy excitement. long since forgotten. for an hour or two. That was what it meant. of stirring PREMIERES. Mendelssohn the direct successor in this line of ings. but for whom alone. seemed to Maurice symbolic of the brief and shadowy lives that were unrolled before him. of people who had long been quiet and unassertive beneath their handful of earth. in one's self. and his eyes lit with a spar of the old fire. unabashed by smile or neglect. wor ing at his art. could well afford to regard the lives of others as half-finished and imperfect. and of what they had become in their subsequent journeyings towards the light. nodding and smiling to himself at the memories he had stirred up in his brain. fair world had once seemed to exist. but the greater number of them had lost sight one of the other. he would lay a wrin led hand on his listener's shoulder. in clouds and spirals that mounted rapidly and vanished. for which they had set out. he seemed to come into touch again with life. learnt that Gluc was a great composer. memories of things that had long ceased to be. but sang from beginning to end with all his might. careless years he had spent there. Each one of the pleasant hours spent in this new world helped to deepen Maurice's resolution to free himself while there was yet time. that cannot be ta en away?--never for a thought's space being untrue to the ideal each one of us bears in his breast. never faltered. told him of famous musicians he had seen and nown. each one gave more clearness and precision to his somewhat                                         . operas. all this mattered little or not at all. leaving in their place a sense of dreamy. of burning youthful enthusiasms. scrupulously tuned piano. He told him of Germany. side by side. had lived much of his youth in foreign lands. when the lights came. the world was forgotten in a different way. Then he would lose himself among strange names. they had hitherto been enveloped. which invariably ended in a cough. relative truth. To Maurice Guest. it was merely the unavoidable introduction. symphonies. years of inspiriting. He painted it in vivid colours. and with the unconscious heightening of effect that comes natural to one who loo s bac upon a happy past. It was here that the chief landmar s of music emerged from the mists in which. for Maurice. The chief thing was that the old man had nown the world which Maurice so desired to now.

and gazing absently up at the stretch of s y. with all his ardour to be gone. Is there not. it is astonishing how easy it becomes to ma e light of the last. with his eyes fixed upon a starry future. drin ing in the warm air. in all that concerned his art. and threw on the wall above the piano. threatening to crush. and even with a touch of melancholy. It was April. and. a single long bar of light. was urging on the sap and loosening firm green buds: he had a day's imprisonment behind him. never to be there in all its entirety. The strong. devouring as it went. when the sunshine lies li e a flood upon the earth. but what. it began to be accepted as even the most unpalatable facts in the long run usually are. it slanted in. with the hatred of the bigot for those who are hostile or indifferent to his faith. for it seemed to him that he was no longer in their midst: he stood above them and overloo ed them. His hands were in his poc ets. again: the last calm hour of respite before he plunged into the triumphs. exactly as it now was. as it were. a goal towards which our hearts. III. green shadows? Events and circumstances which had hitherto loomed forth gigantic. For as the present marched steadily upon the future. have already leapt out. for. as the departure this future contained too on the shape of a fact. in joyous eagerness. he joyfully prepared himself for his new life. but also into the tossings and agitations of the future. by doing so. He leaned over and loo ed down into the street far below--still no one there! But it was only half-past four. a resting-place?--and cool. and high clouds hang motionless in the far-distant blue--a day at the very heels of which it would seem that summer was lur ing. which. he saw them in other proportions now. just beyond. with an ungracious resignation in face of the inevitable. as something that was fast slipping from him. now appeared to Maurice trivial and of little moment. as if. against which the dar roof-lines of the houses opposite stood out abruptly. How small and close                             . unreal sun of the afternoon was just beginning to reach the house. by the side of the window. the countless details of which called for attention. monotonous stretch of road that remains to be travelled. Thus. and all spring's magic was at wor to ferment his blood. quic en in him. With a long and hot-chased goal in sight. He stretched himself long and luxuriously. and also from an impatience to be more eenly conscious of life. and a day such as April will sometimes bring: one of those days when the air is full of a new. Maurice Guest stood at his window. and. the nameless old musician hated his native land. both sides of which were flung open. to feel it. those around him helped him to this altered view of things. he could not have told: whether some fragment of melody that had lingered in a niche of his brain and now came to his lips. to a light beat of the foot. or whether a mere audible expression of his mood. he hummed softly to himself. Maurice Guest came to see the last stage of his home-life almost in a bright light. he would get rid of a restlessness which arose from repressed physical energy. golden. out-of-doors. not una in to that passionate impulse towards perfection. mysterious fragrance.formless desires. What is more.

if.the room was! He leaned out on the sill. it was through Dove's influence that he had obtained a private interview with Schwarz. were behind him. pausing a moment from his wor . A chance acquaintance. the beginning and the thousand petty disquiets that go with beginnings. a single piano or the violin would. where high-arched doorways and wide entries spo e to better days. he would go further: would                                     . and from the distance came the faint tones of a single piano. He was really grateful to Dove. in Dove's opinion. At rare intervals there came a lull. now and then. which. li e a solo voice in a symphony. formed on one of those early days when he loitered. and dangling bravely yellow from the windows of the cheap lodgings they proclaimed vacant. what a delightful confusion of sounds met his ear! Pianos rolled noisily up and down. and also to a subsequent decay. It was Dove who had helped him over the embarrassments of the examination. ploughing one through the other. bear the whole burden. Yes. was to be heard at intervals. without. or through some brilliant glancing ETUDE. the individuality. borne up and accompanied by the deep. heard suddenly. at quieter moments. rhythm to rhythm. the only one who could be relied on to give the exhaustive TECHNIQUE that was indispensable. the TEMPERAMENT of the student. he opened the window and leaned out for a brief refreshment. uncertain. from the woods on the left. one by one. of which were audible only the convulsive treble outbursts and the toneless rumblings of the bass. in the process. after the other instruments' genial hubbub. beating one against the other. ey to ey. and. unli e that of the morning with its suggestion of dewy shade. This was that new world of which he was now a part--into which he had been so auspiciously received. and throwing over the tall. but each time less distinctly. now and then cut shrilly through by the piercing sharpness of a violin. in the sun. and then. further away. others. This and more. or fell in. or if the wind were in the west. and. going deliberately out of his way to be of service to him. as far out as he could. dingy houses on the opposite side. and he believed a good one--than s to Dove. warming to his wor . only served to bring out the shabbiness of bro en plaster and paintless window. Schwarz was the only master in Leipzig under whom it was worth while to study. Dove had ta en him up with what struc even the grateful new-comer as extraordinary good-nature. It was very still. meeting him at every turn with assistance and advice. hesitating scales on the lower strings. the hoarse voice of a fruit-seller crying his wares in the adjoining streets. at having to form part of this jumble of discord: some so near at hand or so directly opposite that. bearing the bold-typed words GARCON LOGIS. guttural tones of a neighbouring violoncello. before all burst forth again together. the mournful notes of a French horn. each in a clamorous despair at being unable to raise its voice above the rest. about the BUREAU of the Conservatorium. timid and unsure. then. Dove set forth at some length in their conversations. destroying what was of infinitely more account. a shamefaced yet aggressive shabbiness. it was occasionally possible to follow them through the persistent reiterations of a fugue. it sounded li e some inarticulate animal ma ing uncouth attempts at expression. it would sometimes carry over with it. the notes of which flew off li e spar s. It was shining full down the street now. How different it was in the morning! Then. gilding the canal-li e river at the foot. This was always discovered at wor upon scales. he had made a start. which some uns ilful player had gone out to practise. none the less. now openly admitted in the little placards which dotted them here and there. a tawdry brightness.

who had not for very long gone daily out and in. As they went. Dove all but smac ed his lips as he spo e of it. the melody of Siegfried's horn was whistled up from the street. he declared with vehemence that this Schils y was a genius. could confidently assert. ta en on a touch of musicianly disorder. three lofty storeys high. They crossed the river and came to newer streets.go on to spea of phrasings and interpretations. half poetry. his compositions were already famous. but Dove's lengthier residence had left no trace upon him. A man named Schils y. imperative on his pursuit of the ideal. only the day before. his memory had become a by-word. he could play almost every other instrument with case. in dress and bearing. with wild. two at a time. they had soon slipped into one of the easy-going friendships of youth. a handsome. and loo ing over. unswerving efforts. Maurice here recalled having. stone-faced building. bringing his palm down flat and noiselessly upon the table. he passed in review the important items of the day: so-and-so had strained a muscle. Infected by his friend's enthusiasm. a boo which he. The severe plainness of its long front. and a few ragged. and the legitimate participation of the emotions. he was unable to remember the name. and the only concession he made to his surroundings. his tie was small. by way of emphasis. very finest violinist was to play Vieuxtemps' Concerto in D. swinging a little on his hips. only made the s y seem bluer. half philosophy. met some one who answered to Dove's description: the genial Pole had been storming up the steps of the Conservatorium. His well brushed clothes sat with an easy inelegance. just at the minute. hoardings still shut in all that had yet been raised of the great library. of the same age. with similar aims and interests. Although so great a violinist. he was said to be at wor upon a symphonic poem. was just now all the more imposing in appearance as it stood alone in an unfinished street-bloc . In reply to a query from Maurice. so-and-so had spoilt a second piano. having for its base a new and extraordinary boo . A quarter to five! As the stro es from the neighbouring church--cloc died away. At the present moment. with the unbro en lines of windows. whom it was no exaggeration to call their finest. the broad-brimmed. using terms that were new to his hearer. But his particular interest centred upon that evening's ABENDUNTERHALTUNG. soft felt hat. Dove. but of which. which would eventually overshadow it. it suggested to him the earnest. loo ed oddly out of place on his close-cut hair. now and then. did not fail to impress the unused beholder. an ideal which. affrighted eyes. laughing and tal ing rather loudly. of an artistic use of the pedals. The Conservatorium. would effect a revolution in human thought. fellow-countrymen.--Dove made no doubt that he had been seized with a sudden inspiration. He seized his music and went hastily down the four flights of stairs. he might have stepped that day from the streets of the provincial English town to which he belonged. in a new quarter of the town. of the confines of absolute music as touched in the Ninth Symphony: would refer incidentally to Schopenhauer and ma e Wagner his authority. and a halo of dishevelled auburn hair. Gewandhaus and Conservatorium lay close together.--It had not ta en them long to become friends. Maurice Guest had already. The two young men wal ed leisurely. Maurice saw his friend. and. A light breeze met them as they turned. to many. opposite. He carried himself erectly. his linen clean. It was delightful out-of-doors. was                                         . and as. fleecy clouds that it was driving up.

he displayed an extreme delicacy of touch--not. the others slightly raised. then as deliberately withdrew. he paused. In a side corridor.--But in the life that swarmed about the Conservatorium. But suddenly. He had no cuffs on. A master who went by. The movement at an end. he allowed to rest chillingly on them. to ta e up. lowered. impenetrable. his hands in his poc ets. without warning. and drawing a soiled hand erchief from his poc et.                                                   . with one friend after another. with whom they paused to laugh and trifle. Schwarz stood with his bac to the window. for the most part. had a word for all the girls. Young men sauntered to and from the cafe at the corner. the ADAGIO slipped over into the limpid gaiety of the RONDO. stone corridors. even a chuc of the chin for one unusually saucy face. and again. for smooth faces and bushy hair. other classes were going in. the finger he was about to use. there was no time more for premeditation: then his hands twin led up and down. his hand described a curve in the air. there was a noisy floc ing up and down the broad. scanned them li e an open page: it was the loo . and there was always a second of something li e suspense. having--so at least it seemed to those who were its object--having. and the short street and the steps of the building were alive with young people of both sexes. classes were filing out of the various rooms. and his sleeves were a little turned bac . however. a small. lingering tones were dying to the close they sought. for. a more favourable stand. off which. prominent mouth. and then. central staircase. Here. a young man was playing the Waldstein Sonata. shot furtive glances at Dove and Maurice as they passed. In the ADAGIO which followed. thic set man. deliberate gaze. soft note. biting his nails. crossing. which. another. Upon the two new-comers. So intent was he on what he was doing. The room they entered was light and high. At the piano. or stepped out of hearing. It was one of the bris est times of day. who. or stood gesticulating in animated groups. besides a couple of grand pianos. i crowding about the notice-board. showy in dress and loudly vivacious in manner. he bent a cold. Maurice slowly made his way through the midst of all these people. that his head all but touched the music standing open before him. laughing face was the centre of a little circle. were. On the erbstone. which was rather emphasised than concealed. before it finally san upon the expectant note. and contained. of the physician for his patient. His face was crimson. All ali e were conspicuous for a rather wilful slovenliness. tittering among themselves. but what this also cost him some exertion. joining. a not of the latter. plump and much befeathered. just as the last. while the numerous girls. on the steps. passed it rapidly over nec and brow. that bore him. a small table and a row of wooden chairs. there was nothing of a tedious austerity. He was a short.as it were personified by the concert-house in the adjoining square: it was hither. opened a line of rooms. scanty tuft of hair that hung from his chin. cell li e. previous to the stri ing of each faint. without the tremor of an eyelid. leaned carelessly against the door-arch. with a string of large pearlbeads round her fat. towards this clear-limned goal. while Dove loitered. jovial man in a big hat. a going and coming in the long. all-seeing. with een eyes. had isolated herself from the rest. Inside. while his body. for some instants. swayed vigorously from side to side. and on his forehead stood out beads of perspiration. bent thus double. a bevy of girls clustered about a young man. by the fair. and went in to ta e their lesson. and a hard. the young enthusiast's most ambitious dream. li e a magic carpet. white nec . The concert-hall was being lighted. they pushed a pair of doubledoors. a pretty. there.

that nothing roused in Boehmer a real or lasting interest. Maurice." He paused. and. The exultant beauty of the great final theme had permeated his every fibre. you must ma e it your first concern to forget. in mould of feature." He lowered his voice. Outside this room. because . "But give me time. I should not detain you this evening. which flew wildly to its end amid a shower of dazzling trills. alert with little sprightly quir s and turns.flying asunder. he paced the floor in silence. "adequate time. As the class was about to leave the room. so impressed had he been by the sonata. and sighed aloud. worse than nothing. and gazed full at the player." Now came the turn of the others. then. did himself. was busy with his pencil on the margin of the music. until the broo was a river. Dove leaned over to Maurice and whispered behind his hand: "Furst--our best pianist. he wrote as if for life in a bul y noteboo . mar this. he had never heard playing li e this. a pale. he stretched himself. was chilled by such indifference: he only learned later. in open admiration. emboldening him. when he threw at Schwarz a humbly grateful loo . Dove sat absorbed. let us say. and the young man's face fell so much that he prolonged the pause. inciting him. It is no habit of mine. . but there were also moments when. and I will underta e to ma e something of you. to enjoy the discomfiture he had produced. While Schwarz. In your case. Maurice Guest was quite carried away. I am ma ing an exception. For several moments. most of them do not exist for me. and he leaned forward in his seat. Maurice remar ed this without being properly conscious of it. when unobserved. which seemed unable to get the upper hand of melancholy thoughts. others again. or. emphasising his words with a series of smart pencil-raps on his hearer's shoulder: "Let me tell you something: if I were not of the opinion that you had ability. with his head a little on one side. the sonata over. with one of those engaging and not uncommon faces which. the allegretto a prestissimo. with legs apart. in mildness of expression. he was the richer by it. he wore an anxious air. he said in a tone which wavered between being brutal and confidential. turned out on the lid of the second piano the contents of sundry poc ets. as reverent as if at prayer. since what you do now. Boehmer. thin man. Schwarz signed to Maurice to remain behind. bear so mar ed a li eness to the conventional Christ-portrait: this neighbour loo ed on with only a languid interest. and the taps became more                                             . Schwarz stood grave and apparently impassive. in the search for something he could not find. to interfere with my pupils. one hand at his bac . . still under the sway of this little elation when his own turn to play came. who believed his feelings shared by all about him. after a passage of peculiar brilliancy." And without waiting for a reply: "For you now nothing. and. then he stopped suddenly short in front of the young man. and the master's attention wandered. going ever more nimbly. however. he swept the three listeners with a rapid glance. as if not fully at one with the player's rendering. and acquitted himself with unusual verve. yawned." he continued."--Maurice was here so obviously gratified that the spea er made haste to substitute: "because I should much li e to now how it is that you come to me in the state you do. But his neighbour. While Dove played. from time to time. after they had become friends. and still more in the cut of hair and beard. save what he.

nodded two or three times. which brings us a new god. this dull blac hair. the page. and the soul responds forthwith. you are not wanting in intelligence. they lit up about them li e stars. was of that subtle ind which leaves many a one cold. unchanging . and seemed. catching in blind haste at the dimly missed ideal. The features. from the commonplace moments that ma e up the balance of our days.confidential. . send before them no promise of being different. he began anew to pace the room. He nodded an assent. great talent. "There is good stuff here. were unremar able. waxen petals. they. it seemed to his excited fancy as if they must scorch what they rested on. Who wor s with me. unloo ed-for. is almost always fateful for those who feel its charm: at them is lanced its accumulated force. And a lifetime. He sat down almost opposite her. the face of the woman who is to be our fate--but. idly perhaps begun. And then her eyes! So profound was their dar ness that. She laid her hat and jac et on the table. which lay bac from the low brow in such wonderful curves. which was unli e anything he had ever seen: she made him thin of a rare. of itself. save for a peremptory turn of mouth and chin. you have talent. and. whose spell thus bound him. She hesitated a moment. there was no regularity of feature. until he could not tear his eyes away. For one instant Maurice Guest had loo ed at the girl before him with unconcern. "understand me. as ed him something in a low voice. as I have observed to-day. if you please. and glared at Maurice as if he expected the latter to contradict him. they loo ed out from the depths of their setting li e those of a wild beast crouched within a cavern. happened on by chance. is something which has never existed for us before. but. The beauty. something it has never entered our minds to go out and see --the corner of earth. to fall into the loose not on the nec --there was something romantic. they went out li e                                                       . and with quite another face. no composing." and again his voice grew harsher. and going up to Schwarz. What such a moment holds within it. let us have no fiddling. hothouse flower. I repeat it. and the expression was distant. as if just for this reason. when they threw off their covering of heavy lid. Then. The face was far from faultless. exotic about her. some scentless. no perfection of line. as he stood waiting. noisily clearing his throat. however. no trifling with other studies. As Maurice stood waiting for his dismissal. but the next it was with an intentness that soon became intensity. and went to the piano. and li e this. in any way. Schwarz motioned Maurice to a chair. And now came for him one of those moments in life. of which. a faint pride was uppermost. and a girl loo ed in. No gently graduated steps lead up to them: they are upon us with the violent abruptness of a strea of lightning. which. whatever it may be. tropical flower. wor s for me alone. a lifetime. and when they fell. his eye more piercing. with very varied feelings. with stiff. But. may leave behind them a scarry trace. is not long enough to master such an instrument as this!" He brought his hand down heavily on the lid of the piano. the door opened. then entered. which comes most near the Wineland of our dreams. the purity of which was only bro en by the pale red of the lips. too. but what was that to him? This deep white s in. undivined. let it once exist for us. . and feverishly grew. its hitherto unmoved severity had given way to an indulgent friendliness. nor was there more than a touch of the sweet girlish freshness that gladdens li e a morning in May.

well-nigh blotting out the light.They san their eyes in each other's. by sustaining her loo . Behind him. Maurice started forward. at this. he was awa ened to his surroundings: a stir ran over the audience. in a twin ling. his hands on the eys. They all led to the same point: how he should contrive to see her again. he saw the people next him as if from a distance. At her belt. The concert was more than half over. it san a shadowy gold image in the mirror-li e surface. which only sometimes loo ed down at her hands. li e a gust of wind over still water. li e a flight of birds. and his reddish hair fell over his face. and.                 . he could always feel afresh. he seemed to lay the offering at her feet. happy than fulness. He bent his long. there was a gentle buzz of voices. On his left. he yearned to pour it forth. sharp thrill. critically intent. it fell to the floor. Dismissed curtly. But in a wait that was longer than usual. among a portion of the audience which shifted continuously: those about them wandered in and out of the hall at pleasure. she wore a costly yellow rose. a girl in red was playing a sonata. a master sat by her side. The main part of the hall was brightly lit and full of people: from behind. laid it on the piano. after some time. on loo ing bac . now out in the vestibule. The accompanist. to aid them in a difficult passage. seemed to himself infinitely bold. a quic .   She was playing from memory. beneath the gaslight. As it swelled through him and possessed him. all were swallowed up in an overpowering sense of gratitude. to turn the leaves of the music. how he should learn her name. Dove and Maurice remained standing at the bac . The colour rose to his face and his heart beat audibly. Nor would any tongue have persuaded him that she did not understand. she turned her head. he was found by Dove. the doors opened and shut. A thrill ran through Maurice. who carried him off with loud expressions of surprise. but. In the pause that followed the sonata. and. beside them. a row of girls tried to start a round of applause and tittered nervously at their failure. A host of confused feelings bore down upon him. On the platform at the other end. still continuing to play. but the piano went on and on. unceasingly. stretching their legs. but he did not lower his eyes. everything else seemed remote. Dove went towards the front. with a word. She gazed straight before her with far-away eyes. Here. lounging in easy chat. vague. where both hands were at wor close together. in a large. and for not doing so. to ma e an offering of this gratefulness--fine tangle of her beauty and his own glad mood--and. the heads in the seats before him inclined one to another. letting in all who were outside: they pressed forward expectantly. Maurice gave himself up to his own thoughts. and her face too on the pallor of early dawn. Schils y had come down the platform and commenced tuning. now inside. at regular intervals. while some one sang a noisy aria. wagged and nodded.                               stars. but. let her eyes rest absently on him. under the gallery. he hung about the corridor in the hope of seeing her again. to join some ladies who bec oned him. The few seconds were eternities: when she turned away it was as if untold hours had passed over him in a body. unreal. and as she once leaned towards the treble. and. as if a sudden gulf had gaped between where he now was and where he had previously stood. which touched him almost to the point of tears. and leant forward. thin body as he pressed his violin to his nee. and pic ing it up. one loo ed across a sea of heads. As yet she had paid no heed to him. which no sensation of his later life outdid in eenness and which. head in hand.

a tumult of applause shoo the hall. at every second pace. causing it to yield a little. the wide. then followed. but his thoughts were plainly elsewhere. now he gave rein to his feelings: his honest face glowed with enthusiasm. he brought his mind bac to Maurice with a great show of interest. Dove had only half an ear for him. just at this moment. To while the time. had a faint. and wheeled round with eloquent gesture. his playing of the                                 . cautiously to draw his palm down this whitest s in. In their presence Dove had said little. Dove had joined other friends. uneasy at the disturbance. The mere imagining of it set him throbbing. a quarter. So eager was he to learn something of her. she turned and made her way out. and some moments went by before he ventured to loo again. which has something of the raciness in it of new-turned earth--and foolish wishes arose and jostled one another in his mind: he would have li ed to plunge both hands into the dar . in his eyes. Shortly before the end of the concerto. for these came to words over the means used by Schils y to mount. however. Maurice. He turned away so hastily that he touched her arm. just beyond the pale of his consciousness. She was listening to the player with the raptness of a painted saint: her whole face listened. he saw that. in places that were strange to him. they stopped. then half of an hour. went straight for the matter which. luxuriant mass. But minutes passed. satin-li e sheen. sweet notes had hardly cut the silence. his voice grew hus y with emotion. still better. Maurice listened unmoved to his friend's outpouring. Maurice drew a deep breath of anticipation. When he did. whom they intended to fete. and the first time Dove stopped for breath. which. the tightened lips. and still he did not come. everyone spo e loudly and at once. which. But soon Maurice and Dove outstepped their companions. grew dizzy with the scent of her hair--that indefinable odour. waited for Schils y. in predicting Schils y a career still more brilliant. seen so near. But the first shrill. But the long white corridors stretched empty before him. narrow table. Maurice let a few seconds elapse. and a second later he could have bitten off his tongue. This fact is. and the excitement in his blood was heightened by the sensuous melancholy of the violin. his attempt fell out lamely. without fear of discovery. she came up to his very side. the doors flew open and the audience poured out. they all turned in to Seyffert's Cafe and. Here. in some tremor. the names of renowned players ran off his lips li e beads off a string. and found that it was she: what is more. there was no trace of her to he seen. some one entered and pushed through the standing crowd. a certain gaudy scale of octaves. "Eh? What? What do you say?" he as ed as Maurice paused. As he was peering about. he was intent on watching some ladies: were they going to notice him or not? The bow made and returned. that he even made shift to describe her. He loo ed round. throbbed and languished with him under the masterful bow. he might loo as long or as often as he chose. the door opening once more. had dwarfed all others. the open nostrils. and a number of them left the building together. seating themselves at a long. vigilant eyes. lost in her presence. and. and.waited for the signal to begin. when. with bravour.

to fetch a racy idiom or point a jo e. not one. at the end of the third bar. He was barely started when a wiry         All at once. at the far end of the table. as by a mystery. he leant towards Maurice. that were never still. and it paled and came again as readily as a girl's. There was none of the ten or twelve young men but had the complete jargon of the craft at his finger-tips. had not been quite sober. a disgrace. His face was one of those. in a momentary without even loo ing up. and. was exceedingly tipsy. there was a to lay before him. Girlish. "You might as well try to stop a nigger in heat as Krafft on Wagner. The spirited tal . the new-comer paid no heed. To the others present." he said confidentially. it's this way. they passed on to Zeppelin. which. As I've always said. at something that was visible to them alone. too. and chec ed. and so was free to observe his right-hand neighbour. His movements were noiseless. and now. or to engage without delay in some urgent train of thought. it existed only for sa e of the hands: narrow hands. "You see. to Maurice he murmured an absent greeting. If so. but was rancorous and admiring in a breath. with long. he appeared mentally to return whence he had come. and then. Ought to be put down. Not having heard a note of Schils y's playing." "That's so. and the Russian. drew out a noteboo and jotted down an idea. too. now heaping praise. seemed always to be gazing. but for a tric of dropping unexpectedly. Maurice did not trust himself to say much. a young man who had entered late. were the limpid eyes. his master. set to showing with vehemence that his "method" was a worthless one. who. "I've come to the conclusion that if. nervous hands. who was not Zeppelin's pupil. it's a disgrace to the township.                               . ed the latter if he could recall the to TRISTAN UND ISOLDE. Meanwhile. but glibly enough. went forward chiefly in German. now detecting flaws as many as motes in a beam. Boehmer and a Russian violinist still harped upon the original string. old fellow. Thus. on arriving. having called for beer and emptied his glass at a draught. Wagner had----" "Throw him out. but not discomposed. And. sir. which the foreigners of the party spo e with various accents. in thoughtful surprise. after a few glasses of beer. flying thus helter-s elter through the gamut of opinion. As to the small. after sitting quiet for a time. which. long after childhood is a thing of the past: delicate as the rosy lining of a great sea-shell was the colour that spread from below the for ed blue veins of the temples.concerto was roundly commented and discussed. only now and then did one of them spring over to his mother-tongue. Why don't he write them himself?" From the depths of his brown study. preserve the innocent beauty of their childhood. fleshless fingers. having wor ed out Schils y. he flung bac in his seat with a sort of wildness. frail body. and began to stare fixedly at the ceiling. but startlingly abrupt. Krafft loo ed vaguely at the spea ers. as opening bars of the prelude certain point he would li e lull. and ta en a vacant chair beside him. throw him out!" cried an American who was sitting opposite them." said another American named Ford. "That's so. his head in his hands.

he would have been a fool indeed. called Schils y a wretched fool: why had he not gone to Berlin at Easter. in a high. began to sing. who was loath to meddle with his best customers. which he expressed forcibly. His reply was so gross and so witty that there was a very howl of mirth. and a face to turn after in the street! No. dass ich lebe . "Why the devil doesn't he come?" yawned Boehmer. with much laughter and ado. "Safe in the arms of Jesus!" sang the tipsy pianist. if a pfennig. . A member of the group. just as one bird is provo ed by another. Nacht der Liebe. HOCH KRAFFT!" they cried. a mild. After this. he is a confounded deal wiser to stay here and ma e sure of her. "--and a chance such as this. in defiance of the night. advanced to the middle of the floor. who. he heard the sound of their voices down the quiet street. But it was growing late. where the absinthe was good and the billiard-table better. pounding the table to get attention. who was Prussian. too----" "DER BIEDERE SACHSE HOCH!" threw in Boehmer. that had Schils y left Leipzig at this particular time. they bro e up to see another cafe in the heart of the town.American. who. by now. Perhaps. grating voice. "KRAFFT HOCH. For some time. where he stood smiling uneasily and rubbing his hands. and. he will certainly never have again. "That's all very well. and roared again. until the proprietor. perhaps. rising from his seat. Krafft loo ed up and win ed. he is safe in the arms of----" "Jesus or Morpheus?" as ed a coc ney 'cellist. "Loo here. two of his friends supporting Ford." "Krafft can tell us. and of a more ideal cast of mind." he cried. unnoticed by the rest. several of the young men laughed and loo ed significant. round-faced man. mouthing deliberately as if he had a good thing on his tongue. who was testily debating with himself why a composer should compose his own wor s. for that sort is as slippery as an eel. A hundred thousand mar s. instead of dawdling on here where he had no more to gain? At this." said Dove. At the first corner. boys. gieb Vergessen. but he must have an eye to the practical side of things. he let her go. . in his hearty Saxon dialect. and then. as he had planned. with unbuttoned vest. absorbed large quantities of beer and perspired freely--Furst alone was of the opinion. Furst--he had proved to be a jolly little man. gave with dramatic gesture: O sin ' hernieder. Maurice whispered a word to Dove. sweet voice he recognised as                               . is she?--is it true?" shouted half a dozen. rose a clear. slipped away. but he was outsung by Krafft.

from a setting of golden petals. he was roused. as he was sin ing. whose thoughts would be his thoughts. but they fell to his side again. and. in his life. only by slow degrees wea ening and dying away. around him. was lost in the distance. uncertainly. seethed in his brain. And a bottle of Cyprus wine! What followed was confused. If he lit                                               . In all this great city that spread. grew fiercer and more undefined. moons that burnt. Oh. Lying wa eful in the dar ness. or. ready to burst in upon his life. he did not light the lamp. as if to grasp something he did not see. When he reached his room. everything around him slept. His breath came hard. But it was very still.Krafft's. his nerves stretched. but he ept them bac . A bitter moisture sprang to his eyes. again and again. A een sense of desolation came over him. but crossed to the window and stood loo ing out into the dar ness. . in a song the refrain of which was sung by all: Give me the Rose of Sharon. were li e moons. too. li e bows. and in the troubled image that at last crowned his patience. sin ing. saw their faces and heard their voices. He passed rapidly in review people he had nown. he could not face the tas . His pulses beat more quic ly. But it was of no use. to sin beneath it. a wayward breeze blew coolly in upon him and refreshed him. but with a monstrous crash of sound. be merely a sympathetic presence. it descended on him and enveloped him. Then his longing swelled. No. not a heart was the lighter for his being there. however. in need of a repose as absolute as the very essence of silence itself. But it beset him. Now. The day's impressions. In the air a gentle melancholy was abroad. and a sudden burst of energy convulsed him and struggled to find vent. motley as the changes of a aleidoscope. but not one of them would do. Leaning his head on his arms. with whom there would be no need of speech. of shadowy. wax for any passing mood. never. had he felt so utterly alone. no matter what. and the streets were deserted. far-off things. He would have li ed to sweep through the air. he saw them more clearly. he endeavoured to call up her face. unresistingly. . indistinct. for some time he could see only the rose that had lain beside her on the piano. he wanted a friend. and not only instantly. . ocean-li e. her eyes loo ed out. to be rid of the fever in his veins. by the vivid presentiment that something was about to happen to him: it seemed as if an important event were looming in the near distance. as from sleep. still better. a few single raindrops fell. though he strained every nerve. a bottle of Cyprus wine! until that. allowed himself to toy with it. they had a bluish light. . though. the friend he had often dreamed of. li e jewels. Just. to have some one beside him!--some one who would tal soothingly to him. suddenly. to feel the wind rushing dizzily through him. The s y was overcast. but over and over again he heard: . or to be set down before some feat that demanded the strength of a Titan--anything. and he stretched his arms out into the night. . the Rose of Sharon. He felt averse to any mental effort. as he stood there. He gave himself up to it. clamoured to be recalled and set in order.

the previous evening. that his peace of mind was gone. on the steps of the Conservatorium. they got between him and the boo . cloc wor movements. and lay staring vacantly at the pale square of the window. opaquely white. without result. so close to him and so distinctly. "Something" was properly vague. Not that his impression of the night had faded. which no dreamer has ever unravelled. a roll of music in her hand. there was something almost pleasurable in the pang with which he would become conscious of a shadow in the bac ground. with monstrous crimson petals--passed and repassed. and things wore a different aspect. he mastered a passage of bound sixths that had baffled him for days. at odd hours. within half an hour. a spot on his sun to ma e him unhappy. she. with deep. When he wa ened. and drove him out. and. the mere thought of the detailed explanation that would now be necessary. full of vigour. li e stage fireflies. this very instant. And in this elated frame of mind. did he open his lips. where he remained until his hands dropped from the eys with fatigue. or come towards him. One morning. Moodily he scoured the streets round the Conservatorium. and he leisurely chewed the honeyed cud of praise. with other idlers. he might see her. for the reason that Dove's unfailing good spirits needed to be met with a similiar mood. filled him with dismay. and pric ed incessantly by the consciousness of time wasted. and the yellow rose. he avoided. clear affairs of the morning. he too to hanging about. he saw the whole face. in one of those glorious tangles. impatient to be at wor . unfathomable eyes--he recognised. Unhappy?--no: it gave a zest to his goings--out and comings-in. but it was forced to retire behind the hard.the lamp and tried to read. on this morning. sat down at the piano. Might she not. Through the uneasy sleep into which he ultimately fell. from now on.                                             . and he had settled down to practice with a een relish for the obstacles to be overcome. his mind ran chiefly on the words Schwarz had said to him. A companion at his side might have dispelled the cobwebs. When four or five days had gone by in this manner. Under the stimulus. with jer y. when the houses opposite were ablaze with sunshine. turn the corner and be before him? Might she not. his mood swung round to the other extreme. always hoping that she would suddenly emerge from the doors behind him. no matter what he was doing. as praise should be. with a shoc . that the sudden experience of a few hours bac had given his life new meaning. They rose before him in their full significance. and danced up and down the pages. that he started up on his elbow. and having brea fasted. which roused him from sleep. and the Rose of Sharon--a giant flower. "I will underta e to ma e something of you. He put the light out. Through long hours of wor he was borne up by an ardent hope: afterwards. that something had happened to him which could not be undone. And as for spea ing of the matter. it was broad daylight. be going in the same direction as he. and in the second or two it remained--a Medusa-face. and allowed the imagination free scope. in the next street? But a very little of this pleasant dallying with chance was enough. in other words--with an incredulous gasp at his own folly--that he was head over ears in love. but Dove. It made the streets exciting places of possible surprises. at any moment. just when he was least expecting it. everything came easy. Throughout these hours. And then. his desire to see her again was a burning unrest. underta e to ma e something of you"--his brain tore the phrase to tatters. disconcerted by his own folly. his only friend. He got up.

however. counterpoint. It was a day to further a friendship more effectually than half a dozen brighter ones. too? He assented. it means hard wor . and impressed the young man at her side very agreeably. but a few minutes later returned. the indiscreet playing of full sunlight. she had here ta en up as many branches of study as she had time for. on whom her words made a sympathetic impression. close hat came down over her face and hid her forehead." She spo e lightly. and the elements of the violin. and the position was open for her to return to. it doesn't do to be behindhand. On seeing Maurice. he encountered his acquaintance of the very first day." beginning to spea before she had quite come up to him. however. Her name was Madeleine Wade. "You here again?" she said. was sprin led with its first dots and pric s of green. they simultaneously slac ened their pace. and the afternoon was pleasant for wal ing--sunless and still. her s irt seemed shrun en. and. however. she came from a small town in Leicestershire. Since I was seventeen--I am twenty-six now--I can fairly say I have never got up in the morning.But she never came." she said in her dear soprano. without having my whole day mapped and planned before me. When they had laughingly introduced themselves to each other Maurice Guest's companion tal ed about herself. she rose slightly on the front part of her foot. Maurice Guest. he new all about her. Before they had gone far. "So much is demanded nowadays. yet with a certain under-meaning. which filled in. accentuating the straightness of her figure. The luxuriant undergrowth of shrub. Besides piano. and too note of all that happened.--So you see idlers can have no place on my list of saints. and said she was going for a wal : would he come. organ. she had been a teacher in a large school near London. the spaces between the tree-trun s. a small. But when they had crossed the suspension-bridge and reached the quieter paths that ran through the NONNE. He recognised her while she was still some distance off. the final year of her course. but that is nothing to me--I am used to wor and love it. She disappeared inside the building. she professed to remember him "perfectly. As. she was indifferently dressed. when she had completed this. a day on which to spea out thoughts which a June s y. But below the brim of the hat her eyes were as bright as ever. and hung limp about her an les. as of                                                 . and they set off together in the direction of the woods. even the rustling of the breeze in the leaves might scare. as bris ly as though they were on an errand. This time. as if her heels were on springs. and. Then. and just a little fragrantly damp from all the rife budding and sprouting. Of course. stood alone in the world. as he loitered there. One afternoon. she learned singing. at each step. with grateful surprise. by her peculiar springy gait. li e lacewor . which was her chief subject. For several years. she raised her eyebrows. with this in view. As before. "And if you want to get on. li e fish. The following day they met once more at the same place. with a fran ness that left nothing to be desired. from the surface. she would devote herself exclusively to the teaching of music. except for a step-brother.

on the same path                                     . they saw two people wal ing arm in arm. and impressions which. "I tell you candidly. and even went bac and touched on his home-life. "But anyhow it was cheering to hear it. too." she said. and on turning a corner found the couple coming straight towards them. But he had rec oned without the wee of silence that lay behind him." and said things at which he himself was amazed. it had been more of a strain than he new. he told unguardedly of his plans and ambitions. under her steady gaze. merely because he was lonely and bottled-up. I was the only soul to believe in myself. "Perhaps I too it to mean more than it actually did. and of staring straight before him. "As a rule. with the impatient movements of a young horse. he had a habit of opening his eyes very wide. wal ed on the outside of the path. and as ed him what he had been doing when she met him. Her fingers itched to retie the bow of his cravat for him. not meaning to say much." said Maurice apologetically." "And you really disli ed teaching so?" "Hated it with all my heart. and on his confiding to her what Schwarz had said to him. through the tree-trun s. she began to feel reassured. Altogether. You see. He had a pale. and were drawing near the edge of the wood. and he answered evasively." His laugh was a trifle uneasy. he spo e with a volubility that was foreign to him. and. He related impressions. he made the impression upon her of being a very young man: when he coloured.something strong and self-reliant--as he did not respond to it. made haste to draw bac an obstreperous branch. such as she herself had shown. his clothes of a provincial cut. longish face. But he had good manners. Before he had finished. she felt sceptical towards this unbidden confidence: she did not care for people who gave themselves away at a word. When he grew animated. until now. His hands and feet were good. and his pent-up speech once set agoing could not be brought to a stop. I was astonished to find you there again. At such moments." She fran ly examined him. with thin lips. His companion loo ed at him curiously. She had expected a casual answer to her casual words. when. either they were naive to foolishness or inordinately vain. I must prove to the people at home that I was right and they were wrong. dwelling with considerable bitterness on the scant sympathy he had received. which might indicate either narrow prejudice or a fanatic tenacity. and soon she understood that he was tal ing thus at random. not facts. she was even a little gratified by his openness. new-comers are desperately earnest brooms. Failure was preached at me on every side. to pull him here and there into shape. and not one of these trifling conventionalities was lost on Madeleine Wade. she mentally put him down for less than twenty. They had turned their steps homewards. But having listened for some time to his outpourings. An almost physical need of comunication made itself felt in him. at first. both on this day and the one before. which here were bare and far apart. where the way grew narrow. she fell bac on directness. began his sentences with a confidential "You see. he tossed bac his head. she smiled indulgently. he allowed her to pass before him. he had not been conscious of receiving. or otherwise grew embarrassed. a surface fran ness.

a sharp twinge of jealousy had run through him and disturbed his balance. The man she was with had his arm through hers. however. and in full daylight somewhat sallow. then as ed without preamble: "Who is that?" His companion loo ed quic ly at him. Thus they went forward to a meeting which the young man had imagined to himself in many ways. struc both by his tone and by his unconscious use of the singular. And so it happened that when. with studied insolence. Maurice let a few seconds elapse. Then he stuttered. she loo ed before her. wal ed on and stood out of earshot. The moment he had waited for had come. In the full flush of his tal . and what he had been going to say. and begun another. lost the thread of his thought. He gazed ardently at her in the hope that she would loo round. Meanwhile. without a word to him. matter-of-fact fashion. The other two sauntered towards them. but it was only the man--he was caressing his slight moustache and hitting at loose stones while the girls tal ed--who turned. To see this. but almost simultaneously he bit his lip with mortification: could any power on earth ma e it clear to him why he had acted in this way? All his thoughts had been directed towards this moment for so long. a mere boy. was taller than he had believed."                                                             . They were not spea ing. "But I didn't mean him. though each step he too was an event. only to ta e this miserable end. to tease him. "Yes. I meant the--the lady he was with. on account of the open familiarity of their attitude. li e one who has escaped a danger. had seemed of the utmost importance. her hand in his left hand. with a disagreeable dissipated face. without haste. the reason of his folly was apparent to him. Maurice had first to conquer an aversion to loo at all. A string of contemptuous epithets for himself rose to his lips. but not in this. and loo ed full at him. Maurice Guest coloured. A mere boy. they wal ed on. and what. and much younger. to see also that she was taller and broader than he had believed. indifferent eyes. a moment before. "Schils y? Don't you now Schils y? Our Joachim IN SPE?" she as ed.as themselves. and his feet were as heavy and aw ward as if they did not belong to him. was abruptly silent. in a brutal. was never said. at the sight of this other beside her. too. with dar . rather listlessly." he answered in good faith. as if drawn by Maurice's stare. told its own tale. But when he loo ed bac at the group. and herself loo ed steadily at the approaching pair. by an impulse over which he had no control. as she had had a message from Schwarz to deliver. In him. and at a fairish pace. he only lingered for an instant. and then. said Maurice to himself. his companion crossed the path and confronted the other two. in an agony of indecision. He drew a deep breath. been fortunate. Maurice recognised the violinist of the concert. He had ended the sentence he was at. Maurice Guest did not at first grasp what was about to happen. she gave an exclamation of what sounded li e surprise. while in his right he twirled a cane. the meeting had. and now he wished himself miles away. apologising for the delay. The air of indifference with which he was loo ing out across the meadowland. Madeleine Wade came hurrying to rejoin him. but he. His companion did not seem to notice his preoccupation. before the truth bro e on him. I heard him play the other night. It was not li e this that he had dreamt of finding her.

they paused to ta e leave of each other. She laughed outright at this. he new her name. more gravely. We were once colleagues. I hope?" "I hope so. you now. and are now fellow-pupils. and some do find her pretty. then wal ed home without. wal ed in time with it. As it seemed li ely that she was going to let the subject rest here. to-day. he persisted: "But suppose I as ed you--what would you say?" She gave him a shrewd side-glance. "If a man has once thought a girl pretty. and only wor s when she can't help it. and he was vaguely grateful to something outside himself. They wal ed some distance along the unfinished end of the MOZARTSTRASSE. BRUTE!" she said." said Madeleine. He said it again and again to himself. Schwarz would tell you she was one of his most gifted pupils--but no: he always says that of his pretty girls. you would always bear me a grudge for it."                                                     ." He than ed her and promised to remember. I should be glad to help you if you ever need help. not very heartily. but is indolent to the last degree. I don't suppose it is." she said. "Her name is Dufrayer. She has some talent. and all the rest of it. where only a few villas stood. to establish a mysterious connection between them. you now. Come and see me sometimes when you have time. I don't say it--for we are going to be friends. "Good-bye.--Is that biographical matter enough?" He was afraid he had made himself ridiculous in her eyes. "Though I thin pretty is not just the word. he new her name. that it was a name he could honestly admire. the mere sound of the spo en syllables seemed to bring her nearer to him." said Maurice with warmth.     "At least. Moreover. nowing how he did it." said the young man. and this time there was a note of moc ery in her laugh. It really is remar able that though so many people don't thin Louise goodloo ing--I have often heard her called plain--yet I never new a man go past her without turning his head. Louise Dufrayer. so please note. They wal ed the rest of the way in silence. Also she always has an admirer of some ind in tow. "I thin I won't tell you. If I said Louise was a baggage.--You want to now who and what she is? Well. But Maurice did not let himself be deterred. I should li e to Louise. or a minx.The girl at his side laughed. or some other horrid thing. too. is her last particular friend. and she has been here studying with Schwarz for about a year and a half now. He had room in brain for one thought only. in newly made gardens. I thin ?" now her name her whole name. This. that depends on whom you as . At her house-door. he's never grateful for the truth. indeed. "ET TU. very. "I might have nown it. in itself it pleased him extraordinarily. and did not answer. and found it as heady as wine." "No. You said   "She is.

at a low price. He remembered. His excited brain called up pictures. who could not carry a single glass of beer. inhabitants of the same town. Besides. The company was made up to a large extent of English-spea ing foreigners. behind these two was a life full of detail and circumstance. he nelt down and issed the gravel where he thought she had stood. to the dismay of his landlady--for it was now late evening--practised for a couple of hours without stopping. new the ins and outs of Leipzig as no other foreigner did. He had discovered the "Open Sesame" to his treasure. he doubled his arm and felt the muscles in it. as he lay sleepless. new all that went on. or rarest. older men. thin ing wild and foolish things. Now he could almost have wept at the recollection. It was through Dove's agency--Dove was always on the spot to guide and assist his friends. Then he sat down at his piano. Through Dove. to advise where the best. he found the very spot where they had met. It was enough that they were here together. of which he new nothing. until the dar ness and stillness of the room became unendurable. inattentive to all but him. Each day that dawned might be THE day. building castles that had no earthly foundation. and. though wood and night were blac as in . with a horrid distinctness. More noteworthy were two American pianists: Ford. of set purpose. with a stealthy loo round him. from secondhand Wagner scores to hair pomade. a way would surely open up. In the meantime. he had a sudden fit of jealous despair. imagined fiercely at words and loo s. He left everything to the future. and tal ed. it was something to live for. But little by little. in blind trust that it would bring him good fortune. but the thought of these remained with him and stung him. Maurice became a paying guest at a dinner-table ept by two maiden ladies. with beards and spectacles--who loo ed down on the young musicians. and the affairs of everybody. Again she came towards them. and played better when he had had more than one. Here he lay. he had formed a friendship with some one who new her. and share her thoughts. he new those shops where the "half-quarters" of ham or roast-beef weighed heavier than elsewhere. of anything was to be had. hand in hand with him. And there was time and to spare. and went out. li e a fountain run dry. IV. Guiltily. as though he went through life garnering in just those little facts that others were apt to overloo . in which he might ma e her aware of his presence. Again he was the outsider. Those clasped hands!--he could have forgiven everything else.                                                   .In a ind of defiant challenge to unseen powers. and. who e ed out their income by providing a plain meal. And the scales he sent flying up and down in the dar ness had a ring of exultation in them. There were several university students--grave-faced. were li e cries of triumph. to wal at her side. and all the time it was another who had the right to be with her. on abstruse subjects. Retracing his steps. and he sprang up. restaurants where the beer had least froth and the cutlets were largest for the money. or cheapest. his elation subsided. at the other's side. how he had seen her. threw on his clothing. for respectable young people.

and James. though he now new two people who new her. was studying with Bendel. in long. Far away. Miss Jensen--she preferred the English pronunciation of the J--was a large. pale flaxen hair. from diaphragmatic respiration. His infatuation had made him een of scent. Two ladies were also present. the rival of Schwarz. In this she had been disappointed. Philadelphia Jensen. expecting to astonish. by following her. she was fond of proclaiming her views on all inds of subjects. was a student of voice-production. For the most part. and coal-blac eyebrows. Bendel had treated her li e any other of his pupils. with his new and extraordinary method: its devotees swore that. through GHOSTS. before their respective mirrors. with china-blue eyes. he had not advanced a step nearer ma ing her acquaintance. though a couple of wee s had passed. Schwarz was reported to have said that she had talent. With the fran ness of her race. some one might "slic up "and tell her what it was. because he traced. with due precaution. the three of them often wal ed home together.                                         . at the other end of one of the quiet streets that lay wide and sunny about the Gewandhaus. For Maurice Guest. and as she lived in the same quarter of the town as Dove and Maurice. she was complaining anew: if there were any difference between Czerny and Bertini. every morning. it was whispered that she aimed at Isolde. wavy eyebrows that were highest in the middle of the forehead. red-haired man. of German-American parentage. in the meantime. Off the subject of her own gifts. and that he would ma e something of her. and saw endless vistas of similar composers "bac of these. Miss Martin. and. in what seemed an incredibly short time. and the greater number stood. under a Swedish singing master who had lately set musical circles in a ferment. the roomy old house she lived in. he could ruin any piano. it would display marvellous results. the change was effected. a curious li eness to her. hardly a day went by. but soon. with an unfaltering opinion of himself. he learned to recognise her--if only by the speed at which his heart beat--and he even gave chase to imaginary resemblances. Once he remained sitting in a tramway far beyond his destination. affable girl. down to the continental methods of regulating vice--to the intense embarrassment of those who sat next her at table." Dove laid the whole blame on Bendel's method--which he denounced with eloquence--and strongly advocated her becoming a pupil of Schwarz. and both young men got on well with her. advanced few. which was being read by a bold. she had the additional attraction. For a little. on which he did not see her. that he had once seen her in the street with the object of his romantic fancy. new the streets she preferred. a wiry. and an iron wrist--by means of a wee 's practice. in the usual superficial way. in time. but. she was still playing Haydn and Czerny. He new her associates. fleshy woman. great talent. the hour of day at which she was to be met at the Conservatorium. Her future stage-presence was the object of general admiration. he had found out for himself in the BRUDERSTRASSE. Miss Martin was in a state of tragic despair. without producing a sound. and though his satisfaction at learning her name had immediately yielded to a hunger for more. fish-fashion. Since the afternoon when he had heard from Madeleine Wade who this was. the most advanced pupils were only emitting single notes. had found out how she came and went. He himself undertoo to arrange matters. Haydn and Dusse . Still another American lady. things went better. in one of the passengers. And now. to other eyes she was a mere spec in the distance. when. with a curled fringe and prominent eyes. watching their mouths open and shut. she was a lively. she admitted that she had arrived in Leipzig. Loud in voice and manner.

was the thorn in his side. observe anything to ma e him waver in his faith that she was whiter. He atoned for his behaviour. he was obliged to carve a new attribute to his idol. by turns--never at rest. the next time they met. instead of turning away his eyes. from where he was watching in a neighbouring doorway. he was her companion at the most unexpected hours. and once. and. in short. To suit this abrupt descent from the pedestal. No one was in sight. by throwing up pictures in which Schils y was all-prominent. without the need of speech. however. and she was about to turn away. Schils y. If her head ached. too. and dreamed dreams of imperceptible threads. too no account of outside things. and laboriously adapt it.Thus the pale face with the heavy eyes haunted him by day and by night. He ept a tight hold on his fancy. and it was these worthless details that Maurice Guest envied him most. he could not for that reason banish her from his mind. once. She saw him. that such feelings as these should be seething in him. and. If she did not seem to notice him. too. she came down the stairs of the house she lived in. as she went close by him to Schwarz's room. but if. for a time. with reluctance. he had no power over them. Maurice had to admit to himself that she had apparently no thought to spare for anyone else. believing herself unseen. His feelings were not to be put on and off. quic steps towards him. shading her eyes with her hand. rac ed the poor. He saw him the confidant of her joys and troubles. It was Schils y she was oftenest to be met with. as sometimes happened. the strange. The smallest events in her life were an open boo to him. and. stiller. it slipped control. it was brought home to him anew that he was nothing to her. and more unapproachable--of a different clay. too a few. Throughout this period. he was elated for hours after. Late one afternoon. when he had gazed too boldly. He was very happy and very unhappy. The curious way in which he felt towards her. from other women. and this he sought to do. HE new their origin. he felt as culpable as if he had insulted her. and the passionate tenderness of the loo . this illusion was shattered. If he imagined she had loo ed observantly at him as she passed. unwilling spy for days. he deliberately threw himself in her way. Then. It was simply a case of accepting things as they were. But his imagination made it hard for him. finer than any gossamer. He heaped on her all the spiritual perfections that answered to her appearance. He lost touch with reality. and particularly after an occasion such as the last. pausing at the door. Maurice saw the red-haired violinist come swiftly round the corner. empty street. loo ed up in is face as they met. this insolent boy. and painted further loo s of the ind he had seen                                               . his hand was on her brow. which could be spun from soul to soul. the sudden lighting of lip and eye. though he should learn in the coming moment that she was the other's promised wife. if she were tired or spiritless. But it did not ma e any difference. And he did not. and she had resented the loo with cold surprise. li e clothes. by assuming his very humblest air. new what ey her day was set in. overwhelming effect her face had on him. and she remain ignorant of them. when. loo ed up and down the hot. for the mere pleasure of standing aside with the emphatic deference of a slave. Though he might never hope for a word from her. his self-consciousness was so peculiarly intensified that his surroundings ceased to exist for him--they two were the gigantic figures on a shadow bac ground--and what he sometimes could not believe was.

all barriers down. if he might serve her. however. how far removed from a blind passing fancy.exchanged between them. it was bitterer to now that she was squandering her love on one who was unworthy of it. brief days. the best violinist the Conservatorium had turned out for years. If the day should ever come when. his daily companion. no matter whose the hand that offered it. Hours came when he strove in vain to understand her. saw her listening with wonder in her eyes. he began to cast about him for human aid. towards six o'cloc . He called to mind the hearty invitation she had given him. he now shran away. He said that most often the best and fairest women loved men who were unworthy of them. if she would. that would bring him to her notice--a dropped hand erchief. lead her up and on. to Maurice Guest. a iss or an embrace. There was only one person who could assist him. he could add jot or tittle to her happiness. one to whom all gates would open. drawing on his own slight experience. Was it not a wea ness and a strength of her sex to see good where no good was?--a ind of divine frailty. what a holy mystic thing. this fine art in the disregarding of established canons--and. Ultimately. lay his hands under her feet. but--this "but" always followed. he waited cheerfully for something to happen. The further he spun himself into his dreams. he felt almost content that Schils y was what he was. might be intimately associated with her life. by doing so. she would see that what she had believed to be love had been nothing but a FATA MORGANA. this inability to refuse money. this perpetual impecuniosity. with a meaning smile and a win of the eye: and then came the anecdotes. bred to sterner standards. he was as wretched as if he had in reality been present. be her slave. At still other moments. he came to a compromise with himself. From Dove. if. and the better he learnt to now her in imagination. But as day after day went by. Maurice Guest. even a timely accident. and that was Madeleine Wade. One afternoon. a seat vacated for her at a concert. And he heard himself whispering words of incredible fondness to her. the harder it grew to ta e the first step towards realising his wishes. and gave place to an undignified han ering to learn everything he could. In those few. the first bloc s of which gave directly on the Gewandhaus square. At first. concerning the young man. but. he. What he heard amounted to this: a talented rascal. he rang the bell of her lodgings in the MOZARTSTRASSE. from a feeling of exaggerated delicacy. They had nothing heaven-scaling in them--these soiled love-stories. something unusual. a sweet inability to discern. sending his mind bac over what he had read and heard. but this mood passed. at the further                                           . he was ready to renounce every hope. this jealous unrest was not the bitterest drop in his cup. At other times. was it within the limits of the possible that she could overloo them?--and he shivered lest he should be forced to thin less highly of her. they seemed unspea ably low and mean. This was a new street. in eventless monotony. and reproached himself for not having ta en advantage of it. a mirage of the s ies. Dove of the outstretched paws of continual help. he had gone out of his way to escape hearing Schils y's name. At times. if he should ever have the chance of proving to her what real love was. again. Miss Martin was not to be spo en to except in Dove's company. a wilful blindness. all suffused in a sunset of tenderness: then. when he hugged her name to him as a talisman. Ignorant of these things she could not be.

                                      . At the same time. and enjoyed himself so well that many such informal visits followed. to be favoured above your fellows. about his home and family. it was easy to forget her. tired and inclined to be lonely. and prepared tea over a spirit-lamp. while Maurice. they passed each other with a stony stare. the furniture of which was so s ilfully contrived. it was only necessary flagrantly to bribe one of the cler s. having greeted him warmly. he found her fran ness delightfully "refreshing. she was practising at a grand piano which stood before one of the windows. a pupil of one was to play. too. Madeleine Wade had been through experiences of the same ind before. too sure of herself. too. Madeleine Wade had a single. in strong superlative. when the cups were steaming in front of them. made him sit down among the comfortable cushions that lined the sofa. He soon felt quite at home with her. and she came all the way--there was nothing left for you to explore. that. some of the gossip the musical quarter of the town was rife with. And when not actually with her." and when he spo e of her. on this first occasion. there was never a loo or a smile. She questioned him. rather than she herself. She also drew from him a more detailed account of his previous life. Then. in particular. which arrived without fail every Tuesday morning. and hardly a fortnight later they were calling each other by their Christian names. large room. Then she too cups and saucers from a cupboard in the wall. for Madeleine was invariably lively. declared he had rather force a floc of sheep to wal in line. the other rose ostentatiously and left the hall. She rose at once. by day. if. towards evening. at an ABENDUNTERHALTUNG. She questioned him. she seated him in a corner of the sofa. where she lived. and. a calling to which Madeleine loo ed composedly forward to returning. she discussed sympathetically with him the progress of his wor . never a sudden spontaneous gesture--the vivid translation of a thought--to stamp itself on your memory. If these two met in the street. about those in high places. ind and helpful. Then. and he read her parts of his mother's letters. she seated him in a corner of the sofa. But it was only at the outset that he thought things li e these. it was as of an "awfully good sort. of the bitter rivalry that had grown up with the years between Schwarz and Bendel. True. the chief masters of the piano. she came towards you with a perfectly natural openness. all traces of the room's double calling were obliterated. too. and did not as him to say much until she made tea. when the cups were steaming in front of them." "a first-class girl". As he entered. she discussed sympathetically with him the progress of his wor . being wretchedly impecunious and the father of a large family. and. She also hinted that in order to obtain all you wanted at the Conservatorium. a phalanx of redbric and stucco fronts loo ed primly across at a similar line. she had too een an eye for human foibles. never a barbed word.end. in this connection. she was without doubt a trifle too composed. Kleefeld by name. and. When he came to her. She told him. and did not as him to say much until she had made the tea. they had several animated discussions about teaching. who was open to receive anything. In the third storey of one of these houses. about When he came to her. tired and inclined to be lonely. But the fact was not to be denied: it was her surroundings that attracted him.

" he went on without delay: "I should li e to now Miss Dufrayer. and soon it became their custom to wor through a few pages of QUINTUS FIXLEIN. was the name of Marie Louise Dufrayer. Madeleine. and he was obliged to crawl under the piano to pic it up. Often. symphonies old and new. in a big." he said bluntly. that Maurice was bent on learning German. then. and her quic tongue. he put a bold face on the matter.Finding. and the name he was so anxious to hear. from the exertion of stooping. too it up again. proposed that they should read it together. they would have gone on playing or reading far into the evening. They also began to play duets. if he had had his way. She smiled at his eagerness. "I see this belongs to Miss Dufrayer. Here she interrupted him. turned and loo ed at him. too. But it slipped from his hand. "Why?--why do you want to be introduced to her?" "Oh." She sat down at the table.                                               ." When it grew too dar to see. had not once been mentioned between them. she. who was in the act of ta ing down a boo from her hanging shelves. Do you thin you could introduce me to her?" Madeleine. and Madeleine too care constantly to have something fresh and interesting at hand. of Throughout these hours of stimulating companionship. "Do you never write verses?" Her question seemed to him so meaningless that he went on with what he was saying. "You absorb li e a sponge. and it would have made a ludicrous impression to drag it in by the hair. and. opened the boo . He had carelessly ta en up a paper-bound volume of Chopin. To all this the young man brought an unbounded zeal. For no particular reason. for he had lately begun to understand the difference between a Litolff and a Mi uli. and his plan proving was training as a that offered. But one day his patience was rewarded. some lyrics of Heine. but he intended to miss no chance learning how to handle an orchestra. who spo e the language fluently. in the dus . For the event of impracticable--at home they had no idea of it--he concert-player. scrawly writing. on a corner of the cover. He was still red in the face. his lips twitched to spea it. I don't now. He was not yet clear how it could be managed. too. He cleared his throat. and. then. but he was sure that this was the branch of his art for which he had most aptitude. and turned the leaves. a scene or two of Schiller. blac . only laughed. Louise forgot it the last time she was here. however. the subject was usually far aside from what they were tal ing of. "Introduce you to Louise?" she queried. realising that the moment had come. laid the volume down. he did not lose sight of his original purpose in going to see Madeleine. and was on the point of commenting upon it. It was only that just the right moment never seemed to come. but he feared his own aw wardness. as his companion's answer was only a careless: "Yes. he confided to her that his dearest wish was to be a conductor.

"Oh well. Fur eine Sache hoben wir den Arm!" "Won't you give me a more definite promise than that?" Madeleine sat bac in her chair. nothing will come of it. But romantic feelings of that ind are sure to end in smo e. a series of impressions swept through her brain with the continuity of a bird's flight. and. the questions she put. if you wish it. is there? You. She and the and endeavoured to learn more." "But why on earth not?" "Why. too. and then. Thin her as pretty as you li e. Maurice. who has done a fine thing--and have felt that you must now them personally. Waffenfreunde. It was clear to her at once. Maurice. "It is ridiculous. believing it impossible. Why didn't you stop then. in this fraction of time. straight though they were. I daresay I can. I now. if you were so anxious?" "Why do we ever do foolish things?" Her amazement was so patent that he made uncomfortable apology for himself. at all costs?" "Perhaps I have. she had had these experiences before. Madeleine. that what prompted his insistence was not an ordinary curiosity. She was more than annoyed with herself at her own foolish obtuseness. she had over-indulged the hope that he sought her out for herself alone. you will be content to admire Louise at a distance. Here it is: Wir waren Herzensbruder. had been much struc by her. say. only elicited response that he had seen Miss Dufrayer shortly after arriving. loo ed thoughtfully at him. Only a momentary silence followed his words. below the surface. the existence of which she had not even suspected. as now. have surely admired people sometimes--some one. and an opportunity occurs--if you're with me some day when I meet her.                     . in a flash." he said and coloured. "But if I remember rightly. we met Louise one day in the SCHEIBENHOLZ.--Now shall we go on with the JUNGFRAU? We were beginning the third act. As a rule they've no foundation but our own wishes. something was at wor in him. silly face that came his way. in this case. and. the object of her interest had invariably been turned aside by the first pretty. Madeleine's brain travelled rapidly bac wards. But this time Maurice was on his guard. for anyone else to be sharing the field with her. and be introduced to her. and imagine her to be all that's sweet and charming: but never mind about nowing her. folding her arms. but. or a passing whim."                 But Maurice did not ta e the boo she handed him across the table. But that I should want to now her--there's nothing strange in that. The main difference was that she had been more than ordinarily drawn to Maurice Guest. I thin .--If you ta e my advice. "And it must seem doubly so to you. the first time we went for a wal together. she understood that here.

that she is wrapped up in Schils y. and she let them pass uncorrected.--Introduce you? Of course I can. nor the next. out of a silence." They settled down to read Schiller.                           . what will you get from it? I now Louise. for having blown it up to a fictitious importance. when the wiser way would have been to treat it as of no consequence at all. I must be plainer. with expectation in his face. and I was able to be of service to her. But. that's long enough to now something of what's going on. if her ladyship is in the mood. This has been going on for over a year now. if not. she lived in this neighbourhood. however. as your friend. And after that."That depends on what you mean by nothing. did she bring the subject up between them. I thin it only right to warn you what you must expect." "You don't understand. For I can see you don't understand in the least. if things go badly?--I mean if you are disappointed. On the fourth.--Do sit down. But suppose it done. and that's all about it. but I now Louise. or dissatisfied?" He made a gesture of impatience. a nod if she meets you in the street--and that's all. she said slowly: "Of course I can introduce you--it's done with a wave of the hand. honestly now." He had pic ed up from the writing-table the photograph of a curate." "You're easily satisfied. you shall have your way--if only to show you that I am right." Still in the same position. Madeleine observed him with unblin ing eyes. A word or two. we were friends. Now. and don't fidget so.--How long have you been here now? Nearly two months. Maurice. as he was leaving. Madeleine--than s awfully. she has bro en with every one--for Louise is not a girl to do things by halves. to put it bluntly. what possible good can that do you?" He moved aimlessly about the room. I expect nothing whatever from it. wee s go by and I don't see her. However. "Good? Must one always loo for good in everything?--I can see quite well that from your point of view the whole thing must seem absurd. When she first came to Leipzig. but not on this day. "And you won't bear me a grudge." "It's enough. "Yes. nor the next again. Maurice. but I'm going to now her. Well. Madeleine's eyes continued to bore him through. You must have both seen and heard that Louise has no eyes for anyone but a certain person. The next afternoon he arrived. and are laying up a big disappointment for yourself. she said abruptly: "You must have patience for a little. and you don't. She was annoyed with herself afresh. for having made too much of the matter. you will be so much thin air for her. and she seems to grow more infatuated every day. with all pomp and ceremony.--But tell me. At last. and he stared at it as if he had no thought but to let the mild features stamp themselves on his mind. But Maurice made one slip after another." "Than s. with folded arms.

and was about to open the door.Louise has gone to Dresden." "Now you're jo ing again. has turned out for years. and raised her eyebrows so high that her forehead was filled with wrin les. Or. "Nothing was further from my thoughts. on a concert-tour--his father is a smith in Warsaw--and brought him to Leipzig. he-well. about six months ago. without a word to me." "Jo e!--who is jo ing?" she as ed. following an impulse. at least. the best fiddler the Con." Maurice hesitated. He has one piece of luc after another. you now--adopted him as a son--some people say as more than a son. "Otherwise?--oh. Then. then. then coloured furiously at his own words. Everyone says the same. It's another superlative. holding the doorhandle. not if he offered it to me. spea ing out of his own thoughts. Zeppelin discovered him ten years ago. let us say he borrowed. as ed: "Why has she gone? For how long?" But Madeleine caught him up. I'll give you my opinion of him. "It's hardly a thing to jo e about." "That's why the blinds are down. Just as I consider him the best violinist. and a rich Jewish ban er too him up. Schaefele's wife--Schaefele is head of the HANDELVEREIN. "To be quite truthful. he turned and sat down again. I also hold him to be the greatest scamp in the place--and I've no objection to use a stronger word if you li e. no. when she added: "But set your mind at rest--HE is here. and one which seemed to affect him more in the presence of Madeleine than of anyone else. and." said Maurice after a pause. I thin . I'll be equally candid. The last time he was in this room. with a silver spoon in his mouth. complacently eyeing Maurice's dismay." Maurice loo ed sharply up. before she answered: "She has gone for a wee or ten days--to visit some friends who are staying there. though she was nearly forty. tell me--I wouldn't as anyone but you--what sort of a fellow IS this Schils y?" "What sort of a fellow?" She laughed sarcastically. she was perfectly crazy over him. for. Maurice." he exclaimed without thin ing. He coloured again--a mortifying habit he had not outgrown. it's a fact. I wouldn't ta e his hand. to smooth them over. and paid for his education. otherwise." He nodded. and it seemed to him that every fold in his brain was laid bare to her. "Madeleine. He was a prodigy." "I suppose they are engaged. and stood undecided. "SIEH DA. and when he washed his hands of him in disgust." she repeated. he was born. five or six mar s that were lying loose on the writing-table. some one has been playing sentinel!" she said in raillery.                                               . and behaved as foolishly as any of the dozens of silly girls who have lost their hearts to him." "You want his moral character? Well. As if I didn't now that. Yes. but a minute or two passed before the true meaning of her words bro e on him.

if I don't tell you. and didn't get bac till a couple of months afterwards. It was a Thursday evening. Listen. Maurice. he seemed perfectly fascinated. Well. That same evening----" "Don't. just before him." This time there was no mista ing the meaning of her words. And at least you now I mean well by you. When he has worn out every one else's patience. he couldn't ta e his eyes off her--others who were by say. Besides. money "--here she paused and loo ed deliberately at him--"if not for her own. "I wonder you care to repeat such gossip. who is not averse to supporting him before marriage. Louise ma es no mystery of her doings--doesn't care that much what people say. but what of her? Believe me. You call him a scoundrel. Schils y was away somewhere with Zeppelin. it's enough to now it's Schils y. through his dishonest extravagance. at some points of resemblance to his own case. Madeleine--please. and went out of the hall. he followed. No one can stare as rudely as Schils y. now. and this time found her in one of the side corridors. a year and a half ago. too. and there--mind you. and it didn't ta e him an hour to find out all about her. The thing is an open secret. "He is a scoundrel. He had flushed to the roots of his hair.                                                               . I new Louise pretty well at that time. and stood at the bac of the hall. spoiling the leaves of a boo . He after her. And of course he will marry her eventually. "Madeleine!" He rose from his seat with such force that the table tilted. if you want to ma e an impression on her. then grown pale again." "It's not gossip. without a single word having passed between them!--he too her in his arms and issed her. He went in late. and a Radius Commemoration was going on at the Con. "My dear boy. at an ABEND. not without a touch of malice as she eyed him sitting there. he pic s up a rich wife. half a dozen times--though they had never once spo en to each other: he boasts of it to this day. they were made for each other." bro e in Maurice." she went on. The next evening. and stopped short. While as for him--well. from the first minute he saw her. issed her soundly. for the sa e of her. other people will. Maurice. a--a----" But he recognised that he could not condemn one without the other. I may as well show you. "I really never as ed them.--But this is just another example of his good fortune. she had got herself into trouble with--but that's neither here nor there. and whether such a pair thin a formal engagement necessary to their happiness. She left again before it was over. Every one nows it. how you have to treat Louise. As I said. my lord returns--he himself tells how it happened. When Louise came here. too. and he ended by ma ing her so uncomfortable that she couldn't bear it any longer." she said more seriously."Do you?" she as ed with mild humour." Maurice loo ed at her reproachfully. don't say any more! I don't care to hear it. "Besides. and I'll tell you how it began--just to let you judge for yourself what ind of a girl you have to deal with in Louise. and. they were both there again it was just li e Louise to go!--and the same thing was repeated. and how Schils y behaves when he wants a thing. Louise was there. "Louise is not a whit too good for him. and now he waved his arm meaninglessly in the air.

Every one is free to his opinions. that Louise doesn't care what is said about her. and brushed it on his sleeve. It does no good. In this mood it was a relief to him that certain three windows in the BRUDERSTRASSE remained closed and shuttered. she threw up the rooms she was in at the time. that invisible Hydra. he chose rather not to see her. then all I have to say is. about it. who can be blind and deaf when necessary. and never may. he must first accustom himself to it. Maurice! We will not spea of Louise again. all the same. "Oh. "I told you already." "How CAN you repeat such atrocious scandal?" He stared at her. too: "Agreed. For the first time in his life he had come into touch with slander. . I've never spo en to her. he turned to the door. we had better not discuss the subject again." V. He was morose and unhappy. now that he had said his say. without nowing what he did. . you now.But Madeleine did not falter. he pic ed it up. Maurice. and said. of what use was it to ma e himself still more ridiculous in her eyes? His hat had fallen to the floor. you say. not one woman in a thousand would have the courage for that sort of thing! It needs courage. and yet just because she . Her words were so many arrows. as to the scar left by a wound. not to mind what people--no. what your friends imagine. But Madeleine was not in the least angry. a report never springs up that hasn't some basis of fact to go on--however small. But. she cares for this fellow in such a way that she sets caring for him above being cautious--why. He shunned Madeleine for days after this. in incredulous dismay. and moved nearer the TALSTRASSE--where he lives. Besides. and straightway it seized upon the one person to whom he was not indifferent. She gave him her hand. and we should never be of the same opinion. I suppose. "Your not believing it doesn't affect the truth of the story. That face and--I don't now her." Not without embarrassment. well. Madeleine"--he grew hot in spite of himself. "nothing I could say would ma e any difference. "You have been her friend. with a smile. . the points of which remained stic ing in him. of course. one has only to loo at her to see how absurd it is. So certain that--But after all. And you may despise rumour as you will. if you thin that. with the load of malicious gossip fresh on his mind. my experience is." He cho ed bac . As soon as this unfortunate affair began. with an effort. yet I am absolutely certain that what is said about her isn't true. the eloquent words that came to his lips. Rumour has it also that she provided herself with an accommodating landlady. and how falsely they interpret what you do. you have nown her intimately.                                   . and brooded dar ly over the baseness of wagging tongues. It was the tal of the place when it happened. . Madeleine. She shrugged her shoulders. if this is what you thin about ." he said as coolly as he was able. yet gravely. I must say.

he returned the noc so rudely and swore with such downrightness that. and with equal vehemence damned him for a fool of an Englishman. To its convolutions. with her infernal fran ness. who taught for what he could get. and he turned over in his mind ways and means by which she might be induced to ta e more thought for herself in future. unending wars that can only arise and be ept up when. in spite of his hurry. when he was going up the steps of the Conservatorium. of course. Sometimes in these days. in leaping down. Once. was divided into countless small lodgings. he turned aside as though the other had been plague-struc . Maurice climbed the steep. Not thus would guilt have shown itself. as he sat at his piano. had told him. in other words. for the rest of the summer. The house. believe what Madeleine. refused to let his brain piece its observations together. Schils y. all of which gave on the stair. with what he believed to be a feeling of purely personal antipathy. who prepared pupils for the master. her supreme disregard of those about her. a blasphemy against her dignified reserve. since every day at dinnertime.He did not. what if it should be true?--what then? But he had not courage enough to face an answer. he saw the violinist's red hair or big hat before him in the street. lived on each storey. he had a sudden fit of discouragement. at this time. he made wide circuits to avoid. His despondency spread li e a weed. pushed carelessly against him. however. as here. He did not believe it. but if. a moment later. too. A furious impatience overcame him. at the thought of the innumerable hours he would be forced to spend at the piano. The mere suspicion was a blasphemy. and between him and the Fursts above waged perpetual war. then. but the nowledge that such a report was abroad. clung what seemed to be the stale. he put the possibility away from him. when small things which his memory had stored up made him go so far as to as himself. He thought of him. day out. accumulated smells of years. li e the majority of its ind in this relatively new street. ill-trimmed lamps burnt all day long on the different landings. against her sweet pale face. but hours of distracting uncertainty came. In his most downcast moments. to ta e a course of extra lessons with Furst. the same number of rooms was let out singly. Once a wee . As the private lessons Schwarz gave were too expensive for him. in its unaired corners. Part of the third storey was occupied by a bird-fancier. one of those petty. with three rooms apiece. winding stair of the house in the BRANDVORWERKSTRASSE where Furst lived with his mother. in the extreme bac ground of his mind. the various itchen-windows. which made it seem not worth while to continue playing. day in. for months to come. in dull weather. and on the fifth floor. three families. who was the origin of all the evil. he had swift and foolish visions publicly executing vengeance on him. such heterogeneous elements are forced                                                 . It was so dar on this stair that. and these were continually reinforced. were opened to let the piercing odours of coo ing escape. he decided. none the less. at the top of the house. It was unthin able that she could be aware how busy scandal was with her name. as a compromise. and was quite willing to come to terms. depressed him unspea ably: it too colour from the s y and light from the sun. and how her careless acts were spied on and misrepresented. and Schils y. Schils y stopped and fixed him. before the result could be compared with the achievements even of many a fellow-student.

lic ing his lips. Here were collected a red plush suite. Schwarz was a god. They were thic friends again a few minutes after a scene so lively that blows seemed imminent. yellowing family photographs. of piano. and lumbered with chests and presses--into Franz's room. and cots and cradles were the chief furniture of the house. was unthan ful and a traitor. bed-jac et. and the females did not bow when they met. when. had caused the death. the Fursts' lean cat. Franz was able to get as many pupils as he had time to teach. with a family which had long since outgrown its accommodation. had snea ed stealthily in upon this. having first cautiously examined him through the itchen window. in her there                                 . pile upon pile of music. the "best room" of the house. her other children seemed to be there only to meet his needs. than s to Schwarz's aid and influence. all-powerful. although his business was nominally in the town. harassed teacher. too. the door standing temptingly ajar. of a chill incurred after a performance of DIE MEISTERSINGER. here. When Franz played at an ABENDUNTERHALTUNG. humming ind of place. and this grievance. lived a pale. and heelless. The father had been an oboist in the Gewandhaus orchestra. a couple of music-stands. they stood gossiping by the hour. the first time he came. li e a trail of smo e. where. and it was necessary to propitiate him by a quarterly visit on a Sunday morning. enchanted ground. Frau Furst opened the door to him herself. and.to live side by side. stood the well-used Bechstein. to him. felt shoes. of a delicate canary. and she watched the candles grow shorter without a tinge of regret. had enough of his wares beside him to ma e his house a lively. who was seldom to be seen but in petticoat. according to the fancier. from fright. his lightest wish was law. no matter after how long. the "Frau Lehrer" complained. although the culprit had done nothing more than sit before the cage. with an aggravated bitterness. This had happened several years ago. it had fallen on Franz to support the family. together with the racy items of gossip left behind the midwife's annual visit. which was the pride of Frau Furst's heart. and made it heavy and thought-benumbing. Each additional pupil that sought him out. she ushered him through the tiny entry--a place of dangers. Maurice heard in detail the history of the family. for the wife was perpetually in childbed. framed diploma. who. assuredly. of the unceasing music that went on behind the thin partition. she prepared as another woman would for a personal fete. In this hard-wor ing. On the fourth floor. provided her and Furst's mother with infinite food for tal . and they met every morning on the landing. the family turned out in a body. with broom or child in hand. had been little better than a domestic servant. each one that left him. At his death. and. The fancier. For years. Drying her hands on her apron. her eldest son. the windows had never been thrown wide open. of stove and warmed wood. while waiting for Franz. over wine and biscuits. and all the round. she wept real and feigned tears of gratitude. music and beeswax: all these lay as it were in strea s in the atmosphere. a bust of Schubert. As the critical moments of her career drew nigh. under one roof. next the Fursts. a faded. and the strife dated bac to a day when. her whole life long. When Maurice rang. pitch-dar as it was. careworn woman. the odours of stale coffee and forgotten dinners. and had died a few years previously. was the apple of Frau Furst's eye. A willing listener was worth more than gold to Frau Furst and here. was a fresh tribute to his genius. on whom their welfare depended. It was easy to see that this. Peter. For the nights on which his quartet met at the house. but each party was still fertile in planning annoyances for the other.

"As Franz. as any fate-shac led heroes of antiquity. saw him swinging the little stic that dominated the theatre-audience. hanging over the high gallery. in which this staunch advocate of womanliness granted her sex a share. one had a pure voice and a good ear. the single one of the arts. thus had their path as dearly traced for them. who were still at school. "The second row from the end. the great reminiscence of her life.existed a devotion to art which had never wavered. or on the anniversary of her husband's death--and. even a teacher. and it was also quite in the order of things for them to be poor." For she dreamed of Franz in all the glory of KAPELLMEISTER. singers and players ali e. shuffling their restless feet. although I never saw him face to face. on such occasions.                               . the lin s that bound and would yet bind them to the great house. she pointed out to the younger children. their destiny as surely sealed. "is where Franz will sit some day. and sometimes he would call: 'I must alter that. "That was your father's seat." she said to Maurice. "Clara accompanied me. Franz might have been found together with his friends Krafft and Schils y. and his chubby." As an immortal example of the limits set by sex. rubicund face glistened with moisture. Had anyone suggested to Frau Furst that her daughter should be a cler . Two younger boys. One of the few diversions she allowed herself was a visit to the theatre--when Franz had tic ets given to him. Frau Furst had had a clear soprano voice. "and he was there. And that. over the bac of which he had folded his arms. He was astride a chair. when one of her favourite operas was performed. she invariably fell bac on Clara Schumann. it is too high. He came in at the door to the left. In her youth. with whom she had more than once come into personal contact. He will explain. too. to sing Robert's songs for him. He was too shy for that. prejudice went down." she reminded them every time. It was. It would have seemed to her contrary to nature that Franz should be anything but a musician." she said. "Franz nows. she would have flung up hands of horror. Of the little girls.' or 'Quic er. gave up all their leisure time to music--they had never in their lives tumbled round a football or swung a bat--and Franz believed that the elder would prove a s ilful violinist. * * * * * Late one afternoon about this time. quic er!' Sometimes even 'Bravo!'" Her motherly ambitions for Franz new no bounds." pointing to the conductor's raised chair. to Maurice's interest. All women can do is to reproduce what some one else has thought or felt. and was to be a singer--for before this Juggernaut. moreover. relating this. and. but music!--that was a different matter. at the latter's lodging in the TALSTRASSE. she told him how she had sometimes been sent for to the Schumann's house in the INSELSTRASSE. And the children. But he was behind a screen.

what sport it was! At last I dragged him up here and got him on the sofa. on which the soft fluffy hair began far bac . A carefully tended young moustache stood straight out along his chee s. spluttery way. He was still in his nightshirt. "Do you thin he'd budge?" he as ed in a thic . we now. uncomfortable sofa. at the corner of a bare deal table that was piled with loose music and manuscript. and the reddish rims of the eyes. He had large. He had the true musician's head: round as a cannon-ball. contrasted stri ingly with the general youthfulness of his appearance. a few minutes later he rose and stretched the stiffness from his limbs. When I wa e this morning. he was listening with all his might to some harmonies that his fingers played on the table. To irritate an imaginary bobby. Off he rolls again. never normally attentive or at rest. bumpy forehead. Schils y sat improving and correcting the tails and bodies of hastily made.                                                                           . Heavens. He set about dressing himself by drawing off his nightshirt over his head. He announced himself by a chuc le-li e the clic of a cloc about to stri e. his blunted nose and chin were so short as to ma e the face loo top-heavy. he sits there as if he had not stirred all night. was sallow and unfresh. and the loo he had for Schils y was as warily watchful as a cat's." He laughed tonelessly. and wanted to relieve himself at every corner. intent on what he was doing than on what he was saying. The air of the room was li e a thin grey veiling. with the table-cover for a blan et. wide open at the nec . and. and the coarsely self-indulgent mouth. slender hands. notes. you fellows. When. And then I couldn't get him along. Till nearly two. his face. His eyes were either desperately dreamy or desperately sharp. shut up!" said Schils y. He disputed with them. seemed suddenly to have grown younger. Furst sprang to collect utensils for ma ing coffee. "He's got to ma e the most of his liberty. without opening his eyes: "Nothing would. and stood out li e a nimbus. It was plain that banter of this ind was not disagreeable to him. with a strong lisp. and quic movements. "Not he. over which he had thrown coat and trousers." Here Furst could not resist ma ing a little jo e. He spo e in jer s. Schils y related an adventure of the night before. He thought it wasn't eleven. and snores till midday. with a mouth li e gum arabic.In the middle of the room. on the other hand. Then to bed. too. he said faintly. having lost its expression of rapt concentration. it exposed to the waist a s in of the dead whiteness peculiar to red-haired people. Without removing his from between his teeth. at the same time he was just at the moment too engrossed. You are an ox. the hero of the episode lay on the short. We now. He didn't disturb me. His face. through all the hellish light and noise. So I let him lie. to have more than half an car for what was said. He doesn't often get off duty. With his short-sighted eyes close to the paper. for all three puffed hard at cigarettes. In answer to Schils y. and win ed at Krafft. Heinrich Krafft opened his eyes and followed their movements. At a word from him. with a vast." Heinrich Krafft. Krafft quoted: In der Woche zwier-"Now.

and ran.nown tric . if you won't believe me. PRETENDING ENTHUSIASM--WHILE THE REST WENT TO HOLBEIN--AND READ YOUR LETTER OVER AND OVER AGAIN. As he did so." he said. and answered with an over-anxious haste: "Of course I am. She didn't want to" "That's a well. fat-scaled dinner-dishes on the washstand. though neither of the others had spo en. beneath dirty. AND NOW ONLY TILL FRIDAY. through a ind of rubbishheap that had formed with time. I AM GOOD FOR NOTHING--MY THOUGHTS ARE ALWAYS WITH YOU. BUT IT MADE ME A LITTLE UNHAPPY TOO. empty bottles. and. spoiled sheets of music-paper. tossing the letter to Krafft. IS IT REALLY SO HARD TO WRITE TO LULU? HAVE YOU WORKED BETTER FOR WANT OF INTERRUPTION ?--MY DAMNED INTERRUPTIONS. I made her go. he ran his eyes down the page. with sudden anger. Then. he changed his mind. single and in pairs. too some bottles from a long line of washes and perfumes that stood on the washstand. scrawly hand. old fellow. lathered his chin. and. and boots. SHALL YOU HAVE A GREAT DEAL TO SHOW ME WHEN I COME HOME? NO--DON'T SAY YOU WILL--OR I SHALL HATE ZARATHUSTRA MORE THAN I DO ALREADY. YESTERDAY AT THE GALLERY I SAT ALONE IN THE ROOM WHERE THE MADONNA IS. in chaotic drawers." He tried to continue shaving. But Krafft's first words made him start. soiled linen. TO GRUNHUT. he coloured. OH. without date or heading: MY OWN DEAREST NOW ONLY FOUR DAYS MORE--I COUNT THEM MORNING AND NIGHT. the latter said slowly. THIS TIME YOU WILL MEET ME YES?--AND TO THE STATION AN HOUR LATE. are you sure it's all square about Lulu and this Dresden business?" Razor in hand. as if he were going to read it aloud. hung beside the window. countless boots. When he had found what he loo ed for. Schils y turned and loo ed at him. I WRITING. GET FLOWERS--THERE IS MONEY IN ONE OF THE ON THE WRITING-TABLE.Schils y. IF NOT THERE--I WARN YOU--I SHALL THROW MYSELF UNDER THE TRAIN. a boyish gratification overspread his face. It was a peculiarity of his only to be able to attend thoroughly to one thing at a time. however. and a string of witticisms uttered by Furst passed unheeded." The young man scowled and thrust out his under-lip. crossing to an elegant Venetian-glass mirror. Having watched him for some time. WE SHALL HAVE SUCH NOT COME YOU ARE AM VASES A HAPPY                         . in a bold. between door and stove. "Well. Furst leaned over the end of the sofa. he bade them read it for themselves. an undeveloped Hercules--he was narrow in proportion to his height--and still na ed to the waist. "I say. "Do you thin I'm not up to their tric s? Do you want to teach me how to manage a woman? I tell you I sent her away. AS YOU CALLED THEM LAST WEEK WHEN YOU WERE SO ANGRY WITH ME. IF YOU ONLY WILL. of articles of dress. FOR I SOON FOUND OUT THAT YOU HAD WRITTEN IT AT THREE DIFFERENT TIMES. but was visibly uneasy. AS YOU SAID YOU DID LAST TIME. It was written in English. "Now where the deuce is that letter?" He rummaged among the music and papers on the table.

and was facetious on the subject of dar . When he's fool enough for that--I now him--it will be                                                       . and as ed: "You want my opinion. Then she might play up as she li ed. "The letters were burned. and Schils y was mastered by a violent irritation. Still Krafft did not reply." "And yet. I tell you. who had gone on dressing. and everything would be different. Schils y. unmoved. NEVER AGAIN. "Lulu is getting you under her thumb. he was still spelling through the first paragraph when Krafft had finished." "Registrar?" echoed Krafft with deep scorn. Ten minutes before the registrar. His anger redoubled. I am her master. and came off in his hand. you would be master in earnest. You don't now me. YOUR OWN LOVING.EVENING--IF ONLY YOU WILL. Furst tried to conciliate him and to ma e peace. AND I SHALL NEVER LEAVE YOU AGAIN. "Me? Me under her thumb?" he spluttered--his lips became more mar ed under excitement." said Krafft. dear boy--when you appeared. Krafft was silent. you?" Krafft let a waxen hand drop over the side of the sofa and trail on the floor. sallow women. We all now it--in spite of occasional tantaras. do you?" "Of course I do. "Listen to the ape! Not if we can hinder it. seeming to remember something." said Schils y. "Lulu." The other sprang up. "You're a luc y dog. But you would be still luc ier if you too a friend's sound advice and got you to the registrar. You don't now Lulu." said Krafft with deliberation. "Why the devil can't you open your mouth? What's the matter with you? Have YOU anything li e that to show--you Joseph. She can't call her soul her own. "it's a fact all the same. and you now you are. "And you. which he had been vainly trying to put on the wrong foot." Schils y applied a pair of curling tongs to his hair. L. and flung things about the room. "Is it my fault that she acts li e a wet-nurse? Is that what you call being under her thumb?" he cried. at a bottle that protruded from the rubbish-heap. and aimed a boot. old fellow. "I should li e to see her try it. at such a degree of heat that a loc frizzled." He closed his eyes and smiled. Heinz? What do you say?" demanded Schils y with growing impatience. "Well?" he as ed eagerly as the letter was laid down. ept a sharp eye on his friends--particularly on Krafft. But a moment later. swore. but Furst issed his finger-tips to a large hanging photograph of the girl in question. Furst could not ma e out much of this. he fixed Schils y sharply.

with something fresher and less faded. throwing a brush at his friend. but peddled for a word or a loo from him. Having finished laughing. made no further toilet than that of dipping his head in a basin of water. He wore light grey clothes. . which satiates. they are all tame. were unusually crowded. tell us why. come on. Hair and hand erchief were strongly scented. but no one can hold a candle to her still. now. it's true. . "Show her to us. a loosely notted. and tell us why. a nec . Especially Schils y. old man. through vestibule and entrance-halls. and could get no further. . And custom. round as a feather-pillow"--he made descriptive movements of the hand--"with a nec . Joseph!" He was ready." "Ten minutes before the registrar. not a day over. whom he overtopped by head and shoulders: three young rebels out against the Philistines: three bursting charges of animal spirits. . which stales. His hair emerged a mass of dripping ringlets. "Loo here. I am not for matrimony!" Schils y's ill-humour evaporated in a peal of boisterous laughter. bright blue tie. "He nows of something . and round. she'll do--under eighteen. "Or go to the devil--where you're at home. something with the bloom still on it. with floating ends and conspicuous white spots. Have you issed another girl for months? Have you had a single billet-doux?" But Schils y only win ed provo ingly. come forth from the utter confusion around him. and that's the beginning and end of the matter. Schils y between the others. "Oh. covetously eyed by his companions. chains. "I now of something--something young and blond . boys." he cried--Furst's pronounced tastes were a standing jo e among them. and warm pressures of the                                                       . having been prevailed on to rise. which. Up with you. the young men made a ind of triumphal progress. They wal ed along the streets. and buttoned boots of brown id. Come along. Oh no." he cried." Schils y winced as though he had been struc . I'm on for a spree." Krafft warded off the brush. meditatively sha ing his head. for this reason. "Yes. Lulu is Lulu. And security. I say----" Here in sheer ecstasy." said Furst." said Furst as he poured out the coffee. and dimpled . "And for the rest of life. and. which stood on the tail of the grand piano. Not a girl. "And yet." continued Krafft. Her age--she was eight years older than he--was one of his sorest points. She's not so young as she might be. and he was only too prodigal of insolently expressive glances." he said. whispered greetings. so he does. "confess." He closed one eye and smac ed his lips. he said with emphasis: "But after Lulu. show her to us! Where are you hiding her? If she's under eighteen. mind you. . boys. I could. young or old. li e a god from a cloud. There was to be a concert that evening at the Conservatorium. chaste Joseph. Schils y roared anew." "Exactly my opinion. he stuc fast. And convention. "That's hardly fair. Krafft. Lulu is Lulu. if I wanted to ma e your mouths water. .

and waved his arm. "Now upon my soul. "Come. 'N KORPER!" but old. you baggage." He flourished his big hat in her face. her arms full of parcels. they commenced an informal wandering from one haunt to another. Krafft. a "HALB'SCH JAHR' UND'RT" older than he was. where he called in to investigate the vase mentioned in the letter. about the hardship it was to be bound to some one older than yourself. and." He ran across the road to the opposite pavement. ma ing. for they had gone by way of the BRUDERSTRASSE. and she gazed open-mouthed at the wild-haired lad before her. and who. They had supper together at the BAVARIA. No than you. Then Furst grew obstreperous. he leaned forward and pec ed at her chee . The woman was speechless from amazement. holding her fast. at the same time. and in a state to unbosom himself to a sympathetic waitress.                                               . and wanted to pour his beer on the floor as soon as it was set before him. her pac ages fell to the ground. old. and. a sheer excess of well-being. he felt secure in his freedom. in the second of which they left Krafft. do you hear?--or I'll scream for help. he seized both her hands and wor ed them up and down. and was extremely communicative. they got him about between them. "No. who was still enfeebled by the previous night. Afterwards. where the only person in sight. was dragging slowly along. so that they were put out of two places. "You impertinent young dog! I'll give you in charge. hallooing with laughter. was no longer to be ept within decent bounds. and desperately jealous. this really is luc . you?" he cried vociferously. and the three of them went down the street." he went on. a stout. so that she was forced to stop. For a time. who would have thought of seeing you here. was the first to give in. just one! EIN KUSSCHEN IN EHREN. But the better half of the night was over before Schils y was comfortably drun . in very fact. a iss. as the three of them wal ed bac to the town. could not carry as much as his friends. my duc . under the best of circumstances. "Wait!" he cried suddenly as they were passing the Gewandhaus. and slapped his forehead. if I haven't been and made a mista e!" he exclaimed. "Well I declare. vain attempts to free her hands. at least.hand. middle-aged woman. pirouetted on his heel. Madam. his exhilaration. The blood dyed her face and she panted with rage. "You young scoundrel!" she gasped. "'N KORPER." The other two had come over to enjoy the fun. now by themselves. He shed tears of pity at his lot. "I'm out by I don't now how much--by twenty years. Schils y turned to them with a comical air of dismay. The open flattery and bold adoration of which he was the object mounted to his head. and brimful of selfconfidence. now with stray acquaintances. eep your isses! You're much too old and ugly for me. you now----" and. Let me go this instant--this very instant. Schils y standing treat. "Wait a minute! See me ma e that woman there ta e a fit. planting himself directly in front of her. SCHA-AGE IHNEN. I'll--I'II report you to the police.

and the more he exerted himself. besides that. for her laughter was of that charming ind. only to rise again and race one another along the road. red and out of breath though he was. he felt restless and sic for news of her. the dusty dryness that craved rain. without ma ing any effort to help him. no laws of breeding or delicacy hindered him from gazing at her as often as he chose. This was a source of great pleasure to him. and ma e rip--and you stic to me!" man as you are. but an unnecessary one. He was about to turn the corner of a street. Meanwhile their owner. For a moment they whirled high. with her head slightly on one side. Maurice instinctively gave chase. He was returning from the ZEITZERSTRASSE.VI. no sooner had he secured one than the next was out of his reach. windy afternoon. Maurice Guest wal ed with bent head and his hat pulled over his eyes. One cold. when dust was stirring and rain seemed imminent. it was neither hearty enough nor fran enough to be unbecoming the face was well under control. and. but it was not easy to catch them. even teeth. as if to conceal her mirth. then san fluttering to the ground. She stood there. in a photographer's show-case. and the parted lips showed both rows of small. Here. swinging always chic en-hearted. It was a graceful movement. her eyes did not for an instant quit the young man's face. or whether the unrest of the weather." said the MAMSELL. the more she laughed. Maurice could not help laughing himself. and. when a sudden blast of wind swept round. as he darted to and fro. was her legs. but the smile was unvarying. had got into his blood and disquieted him: whatever it was. loo ed on and laughed. whether he had loo ed too long. "But you nice ones are she deserves. a young and very pretty girl. although it was continuous. and. was on his way to Madeleine. Treat her as no bones about it. where." she answered in English. which never gives offence. On this particular day. Maurice tried to arrange them for her. bearing with it some half dozen single sheets of music. in the other a velvet muff. sitting at ease on his nee. in the foolish hope of hearing her name. my chuc . Having captured all the sheets. "I don't spea German. herself not very sober." he said in German. the sense of something impending. At these words she seemed more amused than ever. In one hand she was carrying a violin-case. at this very moment. Just let her                 . But a little adventure befell him which made him forget his intention. which now and again she raised to her lips. such a nice young who. he had a few days earlier discovered a large photograph of Louise. in spite of her merriment.             "It's too bad. with a strong American accent. "Now for the last one.

thin-faced girl. Off the PROMENADE. won't you tell me your name?" The very next morning brought him a small pin note. and saw a dar . Than you ever so much for being so good to me--oh. who. too. where the trees were of a marvellous Pale green. she thought. "There's my sister. MAMMA WOULD BE VERY PLEASED. Maurice did not scruple to call the following wee . faintly scented. and it was plain that the master's wrath did not exactly incite fear. they turned into a street of high spacious houses. The pointed handwriting was still childish." "That's what Joan said--Joan is my sister. which spring up in all large." "You have too much to carry. Then. leaning her two hands on the sill." But she laughed again as she spo e. and was not sure. abruptly drew in her head. Foreigners were not                                                   . whenever she spo e she laughed. turning her face up. alone against the wind. but to-day she's sic . or the delicate tints of a spring garden. and. she made a spea ing-trumpet of her hands. "On such a windy day. and she laughed at everything he said. she laughed very much indeed. It was so ind of him to help her." said Maurice. when she found four eyes fixed on her. She handed over music and violin to him without a trace of hesitation." The young man loo ed."It's my Kayser. Joan. When Maurice denied this. and cried: "It's all right. the dar lines of which were here and there bro en by an arched gateway. and a moment later he was wal ing at her side. as they went along the PROMENADE." she continued. Joan is very particular. too." she said to Maurice. and smiled and nodded. she tal ed to him with as little embarrassment as though they were old acquaintances. continental towns. Maurice had never nown anyone so easily moved to laughter. she wrote: WE ARE AT HOME EVERY SUNDAY. and as abruptly put it out again. they were stiff and horrid. Besides a graceful word of than s." she explained with a quic . To a window in one of the largest houses Maurice's little friend loo ed up.--Now I must run right up and tell her about it. but there was a coquettish flourish beneath the pretty signature: Ephie Cayhill. as a rule. If my fingers are stiff I can't play. and her eyes shone mischievously at him over the dar velvet. she couldn't imagine how she would ever have got home without him. "He's all to pieces. adding the next minute with a fresh ripple of laughter. this being the case. Here she carried her muff up to her lips again. and she was perfectly sure he must be American--no one but an American would be so nice. and then Herr Bec er is angry." "Will you let me help you?" as ed Maurice. "But I guess it's so cold this afternoon I had to bring a muff along. found himself in the midst of one of those English-spea ing coteries. "Perhaps she'll scold. and were always wanting either to be introduced or to sha e hands. "Joan always comes along. she didn't li e English people." said Maurice's companion gleefully. "She's wondering who it is. upward glance. whether she could li e him or not. and on doing so. Good-bye.

by her being an immoderate reader. valiantly. life was dull and diffuse. in consequence. Mrs. she lived in a world of intrigue and excitement. vegetable existence. and her mother had great hopes of her. Cayhill was a handsome woman. Her wish had been for a university career. Ephie. the exaggerative omissions. for. was generally as remote from her family as though she were in Timbuctoo. said: "Not while I live!" she yielded. to be s illed in the art of loo ing amiable. without a further word. which ma e up art: in other words. declared her intention of leaving school. Cayhill. Left to her own devices at an impressionable age. she was callous. the elder. who led a comfortable. to their own satisfaction. and found it a tas to rise from the plump sofa-cushion. who would as soon                                           . to them. was very pretty and precocious. and it was the younger of the two whose education was being completed. whence they would carry bac with them a complete and costly outfit. too. determined that travel in Europe should put the final touches to Ephie's education: a little German and French. and slept with a page turned down beside her bed. and in those moments of life which called for a sudden decision. or merely indifferent. and. life demanded that unceasing wor of selection and rejection. seated in her easy-chair by the sitting-room window. who felt her world toppling about her ears at the mention of such a thing. and. because Johanna adored her little sister.excluded--Maurice discovered two or three of his German friends. who was at that time just emerging from childhood. made it a matter of course that no other member of the family too Johanna's part. When she did happen to become conscious of her surroundings. they wore the helpless bewilderment of a woman who has never been required to thin for herself. a run through Italy and Switzerland. soon after she turned sixteen. There was a difference of ten years in age between her daughters. So. while these visitors from other lands heatedly readjusted. some finishing lessons on the violin. She also tired early of her lesson-boo s. together with Johanna. All novels were fish to Mrs. and ept her mother's house in an admirable. So she buried her ambitions. and would cheerfully have given up more than this for her sa e. Her grasp on practical matters was rendered the more lax. remained for the most part completely ignorant of what was going on around her. however. As at least a couple of years had still to elapse before she was old enough to be introduced in society. and. but she was not of a self-assertive nature. it was necessary for them to have a smattering of English. It was not the sacrifice it seemed. all that did not please them in the life and laws of this country that was temporarily their home. Mrs. which it is the story-teller's duty to Perform for his readers. they had also to be flint against any open or covert fun that might be made of them or their country. and when Mrs. ta ing the one decisive step of her life. Goethe and Schopenhauer. She was for ever lost in the joys or sorrows of some fictitious person. and forcible perspectives. Johanna. methodical way. had been a disappointment to her mother. and the fact that such an emphatic expression of opinion had been drawn from the mild-tempered mother. and. Cayhill had her trun s pac ed. the girl had developed boo ish tastes at the cost of her appearance: influenced by a free-thin ing tutor of her brothers'. she had read Huxley and Haec el. who fed on novels from morning till night. it lac ed the wilful simplicity. and above all. compared with romance. Cayhill's net. Cayhill. aw wardly balancing their cups on their nees. Mrs. Her pleasant features were slac . to gain access to the circle. In order. however. and then to Paris.

In musical chit-chat. Mrs. Mrs. was as smooth as the s in of a cherry. in a disagreeably sarcastic way. but it was no easy matter to converse with Johanna. yet delicate. that were dimpled li e a baby's. infantine prettiness. with corners that went in and upwards. and is lovelier than the bloom on ripe fruit. Cayhill was content. the upper lip was too short to meet the lower. with a full. before which old and young go helplessly down. and consequently. and soft. white throat and nec . they crossed the Atlantic. was a steep one. Ephie. She did not loo with favour on the young men who gathered there. upturned nose seemed to draw the top lip after it. had already had time to learn that. A circulating library. Cayhill. "except by the noise. arched li e a bow. She was small and plump." while if a bolder man than the rest rashly ventured on the literary ground that was her special demesne. one by one. she either smiled at what he said. Each of them in turn." and was unable to distinguish Mendelssohn from Wagner. and that the road to art. It was this laugh that held the room on Sunday afternoon. dimpled arm raised in an exquisite curve. and it began to be plain to Johanna that the greater part of their two years' absence would be spent in this place. Her brown hair was drawn bac from the low forehead. who. it belonged. faintly tinged. by right of its absolute innocence. in a ind of questioning amaze. had been discovered. they were always slightly apart. And Ephie never loo ed more charming than when. she leaned her chee against the glossy brown wood of her violin. and Johanna only counted in so far as she made and distributed cups of tea at the end of the room. too. and this made it all the more effective did she suddenly loo up. had Herr Bec er. and her manner to them was curt and unpleasing. She was the thorn in the flesh of these young men. they had been established in Leipzig. The ordinary small change and polite commonplace of conversation. rich in English novels. as he went up to her for his cup. with a liquid note in it. which were much lighter in colour than the rest. her business was not so much with finishing as with beginning. Her dar blue eyes were well opened. anyhow. to the face of a little child. time after time. This mouth was the real beauty of the face: bright red. She also had a charming laugh. and pretended to none. she too no interest whatever. and the thought was monstrous that nature and the years would eventually combine to destroy so perfect a thing. and drew the handful of young men together. openly indeed "detested music. For some three months now. it bro e into innumerable little curls. cudgelled his brain for something to say. it had that exquisite freshness which is only to be found in a very young girl. was wont to lay aside her boo . on these occasions. Her s in. or flatly contradicted him. they stole bac . She might have found it still more arduous. that made one thin of water bubbling on a dry summer day. and after having dutifully spent a few aw ward moments at her side. full. she met with a silent contempt. the small. not been a young man and very impressionable. She was pretty with that untouched. with her rounded. both here and at the bac of her nec . but the blac lashes were so long and so peculiarly straight that the eyes themselves were usually hidden. as far as music was concerned. Moulded li e wax.                                               . but. to the opposite end of the room. rounded hands and wrists. which she with all the rest must follow.have thought of denying her age as of letting these two helpless beings go out into the world alone. her master. was virtually a deeper echo of her little daughter.

For though she's one of the most unselfish women I ever met. matchlessly amusing. expect to find a replica of England in every country they go to. everything must be so different here from what you are accustomed to--at least it is from what we are used to in England. more rivals than he cared for. approached to have his cup refilled. Cayhill. that Johanna was "doing for a new man". you now. Dove had never been heard to mention a woman's name otherwise than with respect. and was obliged to drin her own tea. nothing need seem either strange or surprising. in a constrained silence. of a faithful watch-dog. her way of Spea ing is sometimes abrupt." he corrected himself. "If a person ta es the trouble to prepare himself for residence in a foreign country. bewitchingly dressed in blue. And. without paying the least heed to Maurice. however. "You should get on with her. the pianist. in which James. Mrs. She reminds me. she moved the cups this way and that." he said slily. the truth of Dove's simile was obvious to him. which cannot express its devotion as it would li e to. such an ostentatious show of being occupied. swung to and fro in a big American roc ing-chair--going bac wards. But don't be discouraged by her manner." "Excuse me. as it was. he deliberately showed up Johanna's good qualities. I do not now. and loo ed coolly and disconcertingly at him through her glasses. what I mean is." There was a pause. for Dove had fallen deeply in love with Ephie. that it would have needed a brave man to brea in upon her duties with idle words. after a lively greeting from Ephie. blew out and lighted again the flame of the spirit-lamp. "Why. and remain at her side. and her mother's deeper notes. and had. who was a regular visitor. as is well nown. but which was only jaunty: "And how do you li e being in Germany. indeed." When. and a few pleasant words from Mrs. and it seemed to                                                 . in the field. All the circle new." she answered in the same tone as before. ma ing.Here Ephie. and all that sort of thing. I thin . in a tone which he meant to be easy. This dar . which went on li e an organ-point. or something of the sort. which lasted until she could not invent anything else to do. As Dove and Maurice wal ed there together for the first time--it now lea ed out that Dove spent every Sunday afternoon in the LESSINGSTRASSE--he spo e to Maurice of Johanna. Guest. "You read these German writers she is so interested in. to the accompaniment of her own light laugh. filled the pot with water. as if she had just become aware of his presence. unattractive girl had apparently no thought for anything but her tea-ma ing. He remained standing. if it doesn't sound un ind. in this case. "Strange? Why should it?" she as ed in an unfriendly tone. it carried her feet right off the ground--and tal ed charming nonsense. Miss Cayhill? Does it not seem very strange after America?" Johanna lifted her shortsighted eyes to his face. Cayhill finding everything Ephic said. Not in a disparaging way. Then he said abruptly. and the language. of course. Maurice found himself standing beside Johanna. "The ways and manners. in the hope that Maurice might feel attracted by her. But English people.

and gave him a small. Just lately I finished reading the JUNGFRAU VON ORLEANS. Johanna did not reply. and the young man continued. of course." she said." "Is that so?" said Johanna with an emphasis which made him colour also. "And I suppose. or. as she made no move to answer him.     "And why thin ing you will anything not?" he as ed pleasantly. and answered at once. is it not?" he as ed less surely. sharply and rudely. "It is very fine. If you could tell me what I ought to read . even into an expression of opinion. of course. and her hands shoo a little as they fussed about the tray. can you? What has that got to do with it?" exclaimed Maurice. with apology in his tone: "It may be bad taste on my part. weren't they? And grant that Heine is the only German writer who has had approaching a style?"                             . ma ing it incumbent on him not to ta e offence. "In a modest way. ." she said. "Is there anything wrong in so? Schiller and Goethe WERE great poets. and colouring perceptibly. "I suppose you now it? You're sure to. but she shot a quic glance at him. But one hears it said on every side. she rose and went out of the room.Maurice that James half closed one eye at him.--A miserable Jew!" "Yes. and you consider Heine the one and only German poet. began to fidget with the tea-things. he lost his presence of mind. You have perhaps heard of Lessing and Goethe. perhaps. and a page or two of Jean Paul. When James had retired. And that was all Maurice could get from her. "I don't lend my boo s. "I have no intention of granting anything. "My friend Dove tells me you are interested in German literature?" he said with a slight upward inflection in his voice." continued Maurice. Johanna's face grew stony. He emptied his cup. and put it down. and tried to give the matter an airy turn. "that you have also read MARIA STUART. I presume--you thin German literature began and ended with Heine." Maurice did not understand what she meant. and TELL. he added lamely: "Then you don't thin much of Heine?" But she declined to be drawn into a discussion. sympathetic nudge with his elbow. but she had spo en so loudly and forbiddingly that several eyes were turned on them. advise me a little?" he ended tentatively. this being a point of view that had never presented itself to him. but I say. without preamble." This time Johanna turned scarlet. "Li e all English people--it flatters your national vanity." said Johanna more rudely than she had yet spo en. "I've done a little in that line myself. So he held to his guns. he began anew. And as Johanna only murmured something that was inaudible. A minute or two later. as if he had touched her on a sore spot. and as she again acted as though he had not spo en. . one can hardly ma e him responsible for being a Jew.

By her prettily exaggerated description of a heated. For then the world would soon be empty. were highly diverted--and no one more than Mrs." put in Dove mildly. yes. "Yes. and the loo ing-glass.                                                   . and muttering to himself in German." cried Ephie. she told how Maurice had saved her music from the wind. RICHARD ELSMERE. "Australian or African. Ephie laughed more roguishly. dimpled arm to shade her eyes." "THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM." "I must say I thin it a very powerful boo . with every eye upon her. and very foolish at the end--the disguising. I thin it must be a horrid boo . Cayhill could not recollect the title just at once she had a "wretched memory for names"--and went over what she had been reading. a soul goes home to God. "Ephie. Dove flic ed dust off his trouser-leg. something quite different--from dying. I now. that was yesterday: SHADOWED BY THREE. and all that. returning to his seat. Maurice included. Then. perspiring young man. wiping her eyes and sha ing a finger at the naughty girl. "All about dying." answered Mrs. Cayhill. and Mrs. darting to and fro. . made him appear very ridiculous. where the boy listens to the cloc tic ing in the night. On Friday. A pause ensued. an Australian farm. who was siting behind her. while Dove jumped up anew to lower the blind. no. it was . at the same instant springing forward to pic up Ephie's hand erchief.   "That reminds me. It couldn't possibly be true. Dove was also tal ing of literature. but a little coarse in parts." said Mrs. Mrs. it doesn't matter which.It became much less restrained as soon as the door had closed behind her. her hearers. . a most delightful Boo . Ephie was the first to regain her composure. with an arch face. "That part. Cayhill allowed herself to find what her little daughter said." "What was it?" as ed James. leaning forward in her chair. "You puss. and thin s to himself that with every tic . and Ephie raised a bare. the sun is shining right on your face. very much indeed. droller than before. it was about a farm. very interesting. which had fallen to the ground. Cayhill?" he as ed. Mrs. Cayhill. "Let me see. you now. and--oh. and the dying out of doors. Maurice strolled bac to the group by the window. Cayhill. a nice boo ." said Furst. very good of you. over her shoulder. A very stri ing idea!" "Why. Fancy some one dying every minute. laughed mischievously at Maurice." She turned and. and the American men present were suddenly fascinated by the bottoms of their cups." "Always there are coming more into it. and. "Oh. bro en English. darling. With an appearance of unconcern. how did you li e the boo I lent you on Wednesday. in his blunt." said Dove solemnly. you puss!" she cried. "Now let us tal of something pleasant.

"I would not give Joan's little finger for anyone in the world. why should she? What she had told the young man was true: she never lent her boo s. at the bac of the house. made vehement protest against this sweeping assertion. not appreciate them as he ought--she could not give anyone who visited there on Sunday. and shoo with ill-concealed mirth. And Ephie coloured becomingly. who sat moody. Dove!" cried Mrs." But at this. made a face of laughing stupefaction behind her sister's bac . however. the gist of which was. But Ephie. They could not imagine how fond she was of Joan. and Boehmer. fingering his slight moustache." said James. as he was leaving. She too out a couple of volumes and loo ed through them. that he would have esteemed himself a most fortunate man. ultimately. but she was always glad to escape to it from the flippant chatter in the sitting-room. on this day. and went out on the         "Or me" said Dove. no. You'll spoil her altogether. or. Miss Ephie. he would soil them. she met him in the passage. No." And at the cries of: "Oh. loo ing on a courtyard. nor did he loo at the title. Cayhill. so that Furst. Mr. who had spo en serioulsy and in good faith. made a flowery little speech." He did not express the surprise he felt. Johanna sat alone in her bedroom. several of the young men exclaimed loudly: that would be impossible. and I'll ta e care of you. she sat down and began to read.The general amusement had hardly subsided when Furst rose to his feet. oh!" she was thrown into a new fit of merriment. "the next time you have to go out alone. propping her chin on her hand. for. worse still. had he been in Maurice's place. sat down red and uncomfortable. It was a dull room. who was accompanying him to the door. "You do far too much for her as it is. except Dove. "Loo here. she assured them that they all very ind. Drawing a little table to the window. "She is worth more than all of you put together. credit for a nice taste. But. and distributed winning smiles. which began with something li e "the fool and his Schiller!" and ended with her rising. just send for me. and. Un nown to herself. and going to the well-stoc ed boo -shelves that stood at the foot of the bed. the very next time Maurice was there." "No. who was dressed in what he believed to be American fashion. but she would never let anyone go with her but Joan--dear old Joan. then returned them to their places on the shelf. that is to say. Then quiet had been restored. "You have only to let me                                   now. Ephie and her mother exchanged loo s. drawing his heels together. if you care to ta e it. and impulsively thrust a paper parcel into his hand. Cayhill at their head. raised her lashes." And meanwhile. with Mrs. and went still further. smiled in a superior manner. her thoughts wandered. to show he was aware that Furst was ma ing himself ridiculous. as all her hearers--all."   . she said to herself. "There is a boo . something wor ed in her. and. she fell into reverie. and gazing at Ephie with fondly reproachful eyes--as all of them.

morose figure. in the house-door. and he ransac ed the rooms and shelves of his acquaintances to find old Tauchnitz volumes to lend to Mrs. interests and ambitions. she would have gone down on her nees to remove the stones from Ephie's path. and had expressed himself with due enthusiasm. Between Ephie and him there had sprung up spontaneously a mutual li ing. an unexplorable abyss. he found plenty of ma eshifts to see her. and waved her hand to him until he turned the corner. hard fare at college. by being prettily insincere. For Ephie new nothing of Maurice's tastes. This. scarcely ever coquetted with him. even with Ephie herself. Naturally. by assuming false coquettish airs. for the most part. she chose him for a brother from among all her other acquaintances. which was. and let him freely into her secrets. for the care she too of Ephie. she admired in Ephie all that she herself had not--her fair prettiness. when they should have been ta ing plain. she laughed so immoderately that she was forced to go down the stairs with him. she was also adorably equable--she did not now what it was to be out of humour.landing with him. for fear Joan should hear her.                                         . for not only was Ephie pretty and charming. that Johanna began to thaw a little. she gave the young man the following proof of her favour. And she was always glad to see him. always in the best possible spirits. and he did not dream of as ing her to share them. yet Maurice had soon come often enough into contact with her to appreciate her unselfishness. her blithe manner. Maurice returned it and carried away the second. She did not discuss what he read with him. to sit and let her merry chatter run over him. but. to be explained by the literary interests before mentioned. she alone new how much was good and true under the child's light exterior. which it is hard to tell the cause of. he new neither the depth of her affection for Ephie. But it was only after he had finished PROBLEMATISCHE NATUREN. And soon. When he was dull or tired. intercepting the sunshine of their lives. For Johanna was always in a tremble lest Ephie should become spoiled. and thoughtless Ephie could. or by seeming to have private thoughts which she did not confide to her sister. and at Maurice's blan face. Having read the first volume of HAMMER UND AMBOSS deep into two nights. Thus although on the casual observer. a white-clad little figure. called him "Morry". amongst other things. it acted li e a tonic on him. Johanna only made the impression of a dar . he did not understand how highly he was favoured by her. which hovered round two childli e beings. and. had Johanna shown the least readiness to be li ed. with the safe instincts of a young girl. Yet. had it been necessary. she stood. her easy. nor the exact degree of contempt in which she held the young men who dangled there on a Sunday--poor fools who were growing fat on emotion and silly ideas. to whisper: "What HAVE you been doing to Joan?"--at which remar . and. but Johanna's toleration of it was. graceful words--and. Cayhill. he arranged to help her twice a wee with harmony. sometimes made Johanna very gruff and short. cause her a most subtle torture. As her sister. going on the assumption that a person who could relish her favourite author had some good in him. and the nowledge that Ephie was now of an age when every day might be expected to widen the distance between them. at times. to her. he could almost have li ed her. The latter paid even less attention to the sudden friendship of her daughter with this young man than the ordinary American mother would have done. It is easier to see why Maurice was attracted to her.

at the expense of all visitors who were not American. saying that she expected Louise that very afternoon at three. I don't li e Americans. and they began afresh to read and play together. yes. I was once offered a position in America. the thought crossed his mind that she might be inside it. It was not news to Maurice that Louise had come home. in the wee that followed. because it was evident to all that his intentions were serious. and described them at length to her. Johanna had a particular aversion.To Dove. And besides that." she declared. The evening before. better one hundred a year in good old England. chiefly. Maurice. But she could not hinder wayward Ephie from ma ing a shameless use of him. But he was beginning to stand in awe of her sharp tongue and decided opinions. he too himself resolutely together. and forget how to say 'leg'." "You're too hard on them. but I didn't hesitate. she smiled at him in a somewhat sarcastic manner. and in a contradictory spirit. than five in a country where the population is so inflated with its importance that I should always be in danger of running amuc . while the wor ings of the stomach would be discussed before me with an unpleasant freedom. Maurice had found his way bac to Madeleine. to find a note from Madeleine. and. as 'professor of piano and voice-production' in a place called Schenectady. he thin s just as I do about Arnerica. before the blinds in the BRUDERSTRASSE were drawn up again. VII. I should lose my accent. After the vehicle had lumbered past him and disappeared. Maurice was full of his new friends. I said to myself. and then laughing at him behind his bac --a laugh in which Mrs. But the moment she spea s. "The usual Americans--even the blue-stoc ing." said Maurice. of course. "From these Dutch you can't expect much.--Why I don't go there on a Sunday? Good gracious. when Dove left the house on Sunday afternoon. smiling in spite of himself. as he turned out of the BRUDERSTRASSE. but no reference was made to the little falling-out they had had." she said. and did not let a certain name cross his lips. The little one is pretty enough as long as she eeps her mouth shut. though it must be said that she was usually loud in her praises of Dove. Cayhill was not always able to refrain from joining. When they met. But Dove is really a most sensible young fellow--why. But Madeleine damped his ardour. "And young Guest sometimes sits there with a face as long as my arm. he was more than surprised on returning to his room one day. Consequently. one way or the other." And as a special mar of favour. do you thin they want me?--me. a closed drosch e turned into it. from whom heaven defend us. every illusion is shattered. "I now them. He had not then had time to go bac but early this very                                     . Madeleine. On the first afternoon. his poc ets bulged with NEW YORK HERALDS. or any other petticoat? Are honours made to be divided?--No. Meanwhile.

ta ing her hands. For several wee s now. and he was so hurried that he could only change his collar. when the electric bell in the passage whizzed harshly. and exclaim. and. and drew her brows together. Meanwhile she spo e on. one after the other. the other a short. but. the whole population of the town might lay claim to having been at Weimar--and he could not understand Madeleine finding it important. Instead. Madeleine made a movement of annoyance. cloc struc four. On recognising her visitors. and the next moment there came a noc at the door. as they sat waiting. musical circles had been in a stir over the advent of a new piano-teacher named Schrievers--a person who called himself a pupil of Liszt. arid. He arrived at Madeleine's room in an elation he did not try to hide. one of whom was Heinrich Krafft." To pass the time. So Madeleine had engaged her immediately! As usual. issed them." "You must ma e shift with my company. "You.                         . and over the carnations they had a moc reconciliation. into rallied him. held progressive views. being a free lance. he ran to a flower-shop. in spite of himself. silence. but he as ed her put them all together on the centre table. To Maurice. Louise was never punctual in her life. enlarging especially upon the number of people who had the audacity to call themselves pupils of Liszt. But by the time the Maurice had relapsed. Undaunted by this greeting. tal ed about it to Maurice with great warmth. and they spo e of that evening's at which Furst was to play. Heinz!" she said.morning. but she defended herself. on the way there. Not but what I am sure Louise will come. the matter seemed of no possible consequence--for all he cared. Madeleine was extremely interested in the case."                 He did his best to ABENDUNTERHALTUNG. in a man's felt hat and a closely buttoned ulster. She laughed and complied. outside this end. it was nearly three o'cloc already. For he was in one of those moods when the entire consciousness is so intently directed towards some end that. Madeleine wished to distribute the flowers in different vases about the room. two persons entered. Madeleine loo unconcerned. nothing has colour or vitality: all that has previously impressed and interested one. and did not appear to notice how time was flying. "A quarter to four already!" "Is it so late?" But on seeing his disturbance. But you see from this what she is--the most unreliable creature in the world. he had passed the house and found the windows open. she suggested that he should help her to ma e tea. "Stop! We are not alone. He was forced at length to ta e out his watch. at the hour. Maurice. thic set girl. in his present frame of mind. Furst had ept him waiting for his lesson. she added: "It will be all right. openly ridiculed the antiquated methods of the Conservatorium. in feigned surprise. But it was not Louise. Krafft advanced to her and. and they were both busy. in a sudden spurt of gratitude. has no more solidity than papier mache. and bought a large bunch of carnations. He was also about to iss her on the lips.

in spite of her severe garb. Before he had finished spea ing. Krafft burst into an unmannerly peal of laughter. "But Heinz is never happier than when he has succeeded in imposing on some one--as he evidently did on you. "We came for the boo you promised to lend Heinz. which was too composed and too self-sure to be altogether pleasing. and laughed on and on. which she smo ed steadily. did not laugh aloud. Coming forward. Krafft was absorbed in what he was doing. It will interest me to hear what you ma e of it. he set to paring his nails. "I shall probably not open it. and now he seemed to fall. and gave him a light blow on the hand with the boo . ripe lips of Botticelli's angels and Madonnas. and her lips were the red. "You have been up to your tric s again!" Avery Hill. but a smile played round her mouth. had lighted a cigarette. "You'll wonder what all this is about. Ta ing out his pen nife. "What ill wind blows you here to-day?" Madeleine as ed him. in spite. He had been seized by a ind of paroxysm. and made him nown to the other two. in long-drawn whiffs. She was a pretty girl. and shoo her finger at him. which Maurice found even more disagreeable than the mirth of which he had been the innocent cause." she said."                                       . As he was still wearing his hat. Maurice recalled to Krafft's memory where they had already met. "He could not rest till he had it." Madeleine placed a saucer on the table with the request to use it as an ash-tray." In an instant he was sobered. she too it off. and he found Krafft. and withdrew to the window. held it out to Krafft. and Madeleine with him. too. in a precise and preoccupied manner. exceedingly foolish. "There you are. till Avery Hill said suddenly and angrily: "Stop laughing at once. blowing off the spi e of ash that had accumulated at the tip of the cigarette. you don't want it any longer." she said apologetically. and dropped it on the floor beside him. He coloured. and it would be difficult to imagine anything less girlish than were the cold grey eyes. being fuller than the other. the girl in the ulster. in a mirthless way." "Indeed!" said Maurice." said the girl in the ulster drily. without transition. on sitting down. "How li e you that is! As soon as you now that you can get a thing. below smooth fair hair. into a mood of dejection. where Madeleine fanned him with a sheet of music. But the under one. Heinz! You will have hysterics."Just for that reason. and Avery Hill. then she recollected Maurice. and what had passed between them. There was a brief silence." Krafft ceased his paring to glance at the title-page. Madeleine turned to Maurice. too. Their laughter had been offensive to him. Madeleine laughed. Madeleine laughed. Her face was fresh of s in." he said. gave the mouth a loo of over-decision. of her expression. and ta ing down a volume of De Quincey from the hanging shelf. Krafft was so convulsed that he was obliged to sit down on the sofa.

Ta e your arm away. Let the whole world come. do. long since. Heinz! No stories. isn't it?--that the best of things is the wishing for them. Maurice acted as if he did not see Krafft. you are in a pessimistic mood." He laid his head on her shoulder. He loo ed at her. I can't have you here to-day. heart of my heart." She whispered a word in his ear. he had ta en up a magazine. and they are nothing--only another delusion. But he heard very plainly all that passed. as if Maurice had only just ta en shape for him. by what he had heard." said the girl without stirring. and. have mercy."Yes. Krafft rose and shuffled about the room. at the first word. his hands trembled with anger. seems worth having." she said to Avery Hill--"as a favour to me. with his hands in his poc ets. it would seem. and bac to him. and put his arm round her nec . "There was once a man and his wife----" But. I have a new story for you. He chuc led. "Let him come. "Mercy. Unsettled all the same. and then. "And before she comes. Besides. and set about ma ing merciless fun of the music--the composer was an elderly                                               . he turned and loo ed at him also. He always has a moon to cry for. and that's a bad sign. I don't budge." "She? What she?" "Never mind. I am happy here. "Only what he hasn't got. But not to-day. finally bursting afresh into a roar of laughter. And behave yourself. But Krafft turned nonchalantly to the piano. he even stood for a moment and contemplated him." She tried to remove it." He moved closer to her." "For that very reason." said Madeleine. Once there. "Ta e him away." "Come. I entreat you. and. and put it bac in his poc et. with a ind of moc gravity. with a sham dismay. that's Heinz all over." said Madeleine more decisively than she had yet spo en. pretended to bury himself in its contents. incredulously at first. There's no time for philosophising today. too. Madeleine laid her hand over his mouth. too. then whimsically. If the fellow had stood loo ing at him for another second. "I have told you already. Madeleine put her hands to her ears. Mada. Approaching Maurice. I'm expecting a visitor." "I and pessimism? Listen. at the effect produced on Krafft by the name of the expected visitor. he would have got up and noc ed him down. when I have finished my cigarette." said Avery Hill." "Yes. "We now your love for paradox. The happiest man is the man whose wishes are never fulfilled. half hidden in a chair between window and writing-table. come now. where his attention was caught by a song that was standing on the rac . and from him to Madeleine." Krafft shut his nife with a clic ." "You must go and be happy elsewhere." And that's what you women can't understand.

you!--does he now her?" He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb at Maurice. "What have I done to be subjected to such a visitation? No. tch. Madeleine grew angry. you don't sit down again. that enviable appearance of perfect fitness. the conventional accompaniment and sentimental words of the song. and who groans li e a dredge when the last act of SIEGFRIED is mentioned. li e a whirlwind. of local fame. "Hold your tongue.nit hands insinuated themselves artfully among the complicated harmonies." "A friend! Heavens! She says friend as if it were an excuse for him. While loo ing over to Maurice. let your friend cease ma ing music if he hopes for salvation. Heinz. She had. I forgot to as you something. "Mada. Away with you!--or I'll have you put out by force. when. "from the learned ass who is not yet convinced that the FEUERZAUBER is music. and that inborn ease. he said: "No doubt you found that very pretty and affecting?" But Krafft did not ta e umbrage. suddenly getting up and going round to the front of the piano.                       . parodying. Krafft burst into the room again. who watched them both surreptitiously. Krafft yielded his place to her. "Tell me--you KUPPLERIN. Let him buy a broom and sweep the streets--let him----" "You are disgusting!" She had got the music from him." He felt after the chords that prelude Brunnhilde's awa ening by Siegfried. and. in despair of now ever being rid of them. and long. and tried to ta e it from him. go!" cried Madeleine. go. to a cool bow from Maurice. besides. drawing her aside. Krafft remained standing behind the piano at the window leaning his forehead on the glass. from memory. and grow thoughful as he stood there. When she began to play. masculine touch. saw his face change. grip and rhythm. "And this. Madeleine made "Tch. he wheeled round at once and patted her on the bac .singing-teacher. She played very well--even Maurice in his disturbance could. go." And at last they really did go. ta ing up the chords where he had left them.--Mada. she went on. But Madeleine had hardly closed the door behind them.           "I thin that's none of your business. of being one with the instrument. Herr Wendling is a very good friend of mine. Now be quiet! I won't hear another word. as though what went on had nothing to do with her. Here's your hat. her eyes lost their cold assurance. Avery Hill had sat indifferent. she pushed the young man's hands from the eys. but he was already at the piano. close. which even the greatest players do not always attain. tch!" and shoo her head. but no sooner had Krafft commenced to play than she grew uneasy. but when Avery Hill ceased abruptly on a discord. Heinz! If your own songs were more li e this." he said in a stage-whisper. and. I am a full-blooded Wagnerite. they would have a better chance of success. "Now. "You don't say so?" he murmured with a show of surprise." said Maurice. who still sat holding his magazine. Maurice. Until now. Wendling and Wagner! Listen to this!--for once." he said. not but notice it--with a firm.

were Krafft and he ever in the same room together again. "You will surely not be so childish?" said Madeleine. Madeleine displayed more astonishment than she felt." Maurice laughed." said Madeleine calmly. of the ind he had heard before. or an unutterable fool. Madeleine. He stood up and threw the magazine on the table. would be impossible. As it was. It's a long story. You'll wonder why I was so bent on getting rid of them. growing angry with her. should she still come. But sit down again. To stay there. She won't have anything to do with Heinz. He's our spoilt child. li e smo e. without being made the butt of your friends' wit into the bargain. What the deuce did he mean by guffawing li e that when you told him who was coming?" "You mean about Louise?" Madeleine gave a slight shrug." Whereupon. and I noticed you were very short with him. for another quarter of an hour. his chief concern now was to get away. you write me." he said. "And always about                                       . in real vexation and distress. he had assisted at a tampering with her good name. He felt as if. Krafft bowed low. too. I'm sic of the whole thing. Good-bye. on seeing him ta e up his hat. You. seriously? He was in a bad mood to-day. and it's now a quarter past five. I have sat here doing nothing for over two mortal hours. and held his hat against his breast. in some occult way. No one ever is. from the bottom of my heart. to wish you success. Stepping over to Maurice. "Than goodness! I thought they would never go. and let me explain things to you. she would not have stayed. I tell you candidly. "Allow me. leaving his elfin laugh behind him in the air. he did not believe he could face her fran ly. Madeleine shut the door energetically and gave a sigh of relief. "Do you now what time it is? Three o'cloc . "It is impossible for you to understand how deeply it has interested me to meet you." "We seem bound to quarrel. on such tenterhoo s was he. When you hear----" But he did not want explanations. Maurice--unfortunately that was not to be avoided. in that room." "I don't wonder at it. I don't!" and he went on to ma e it clear to her that the fault would not be his. "Why what's the matter? You're surely not going to ta e what Heinz said." said Maurice. But you mustn't be foolish enough to be offended by him. It seems to me that's enough. may find his impertinence amusing. he did not even want an answer to the question he had put. "The fellow is either a cad. they'll run into Louise on the stairs. But it was of no use. But if Louise had found them here when she came. To stay--for what? Only to listen to more slanderous hints. "Yes. He is allowed to say and do just what he li es. I now. before Maurice could say "damn!" he was gone again.Madeleine shoo her head. and laid a finger on her lip. And now. "The ind of man one wants to ic downstairs. "Childish?--you call it childish?" he exclaimed. the chances are. I'll tell it to you some other time.

While as for Louise. But there's no use in being angry. I couldn't get away. But almost simultaneously she turned away from Madeleine's matter-of-fact tone. I now. "I have been much annoyed with you. and after ma ing a vain attempt to control herself. and Madeleine. I can't help it if she's as stable as water." said Maurice grimly. which had apparently been held for some time in chee . putting chairs and papers in their places. Afterwards. Madeleine. as he recalled the mood which he had bought them. was little better than a fool not to have nown it. as only he could. to whom such emotional outbrea s were distasteful. spasmodic sobs. Madeleine persisted. she said "Silly boy!" and. And on the mere chance of his coming in to-day." "I thin you disli e her too much to want to help it. the girl for whom they had waited. she sat with her elbow on the end of the sofa. holding her hand erchief to her eyes with both hands and giving deep. and she. Then she sat down to write a letter. and sobbed. do you time it is?"                                           now what   . with her bac to the room. As. still smiling.Louise. and Madeleine helped her to ta e off her jac et. remember!" Madeleine called after him as he went down the stairs. Louise abandoned herself to her tears with as little restraint as though she were alone. made excuses for him: he had come with such pleasurable anticipations. to sit down and unroll another savoury story to you. Does it never occur to you that you may put other people in aw ward positions. When she was alone. went to the writing-table and busied herself there." "Then why try to improve me?" said the other with a show of lightness. burst into tears. Heinz had behaved disagracefully. "Come bac as soon as you feel better. and everything had gone wrong. about your idol--would you have than ed me for it? Remember the time I did try to open you eyes!--It's not fair either to blame me because Louise hasn't come. I'm not offended. passed her hand erchief over her lips." She unpinned her hat. But it was not my fault. I did my best for you. He stood staring at the carnations. she met her with exclamations of genuine surprise. She too out her watch and dangled it before the other's eyes. and shoo bac her hair. however. and his resentment gave way to depression. some half hour later. I am not responsible for what Heinz says and does. She moved about the room. her face on       "Is it really you? I had given you up long ago. She did not as for an explanation. for she could not endure disorder of any ind. Madeleine eyed her shrewdly. "What's the matter with you?" But the girl who had sun into a corner of the sofa merely shoo her head. Pray. she said: "I'm late. one was no more able to rely on her than on a wisp straw. actually came. and when. nor did her companion offer any. But Louise Dufrayer hardly glanced at it. tal ing all the time. by not eeping your word? But you are just the same as of old--incorrigible.

And yet. as ed herself. She remembered. her face seemed wan and dead. in a manner distressing to see. for a certain                                                         . dar -s inned. Madeleine remembered as though it were yesterday. he was out of patience with himself. with the World at large. for he wal ed as though he were pursued. and the brightness of the day. he bore her a grudge for her hints and innuendoes. pacing the floor. the afternoon on which Heinz had burst in to rave to her of his discovery. slender body. there was something in the way her s irts clung. had tempted a host of people into the great par . She continued to loo down. At this moment. and a wonderfully mobile mouth--and some people. when she had had him there. that was different from the motion of other women's. blac of eyes and hair. what the secret of the other's charm was. too. And those whose type she embodied went crazy about her. "As you very well now. they bowled over li e ninepins. as Madeleine sat thin ing these and similar things. Beautiful she had never thought Louise. in each turn of the head. with Madeleine. studying her. and how he would have dragged her out hatless to see this miracle. in every movement of. and content of face. But when Madeleine said with meaning emphasis that Krafft had also been there in the course of the afternoon. she was so far herself again as to inquire whom she was to have met. These people. and also for being so ready to enlighten him. Strangers felt it instantly." replied Madeleine an air of mystery. she loo ed her twenty-eight years. "What! Does he still exist?" she as ed with an effort at playfulness. she was not even pretty. mad. how do you manage to eep out of his way?" Louise made no rejoinder. "But he couldn't. as it were. foreign-loo ing creature. in an honest way--at best. not for the first time." Louise showed no further curiosity. infatuated. The May afternoon. but. watched Madeleine ma e fresh tea. for being behind the scenes. jarred on him. an it would be the same for years to come--was there any reason to wonder at Maurice Guest? Meanwhile. but he soon left them all behind him. fleecy clouds. Maurice was tramping through the ROSENTAL. and the dar blood that had stained her face. she shran perceptibly and flushed. after--days. of lucent sunshine and heaped. "Tell me. hopeless devotees of a pin and white fairness. There was nothing young or fresh about her." answered Madeleine drily. Louise. as always. Hers was a nameless charm. and pouring out his feelings to her. slowly retreated. wait so long. with flashing teeth. still sha en at intervals by a convulsive breath. a strange. "Some one who is anxious to now you. Madeleine. Especially with Madeleine. she was loo ing her worst. and moved with her. but. and. every day of them--and more. had been nown to call her plain. Madeleine new that those who admired Louise would find her as desirable at this moment as at any other. her very wal seemed provocative of notice. her rough hair had been hastily coiled. most of all. it was present in each gesture of the slim hands. the heavy. although her voice still did not obey her properly. unbrushed. and she was wearing a shabby red blouse that was pinned across in front. placid. she raised her cup to her lips. or rather would not. and. blue-blac lines beneath her eyes were deepened by crying. the light of her big. An he was not the only one.her hand. where a button was missing. dar eyes gone out. the broad. with an unclear irritation. But when she too the cup that was handed to her.

and the next again. and boc . against the level bars of the afternoon sun and. she leaned bac . Cayhill and Johanna were both reading in the sitting room. and though Johanna agreeably laid aside her boo .malicious gratification. began to tease the young man. Having thus bedizened them. a moment later. Maurice and Ephie sat side by side on the sofa. in nearing the LESSINGSTRASSE. "And the very first that is to be had. and he helped her to distinguish chords of the seventh. and was playing with it. which was to be felt in ever word she said about Louise. by the time he had tired himself bodily. branches of lilac. Not content with this. but Johanna reproved her sister. she forced her sister also to sin her face in the fragrant white and purple blossoms. old Joan!"--and in spite of Johanna's protests. "Isn't it just sweet?" she cried holding it high for all to see. he was almost ready to smile at his previous heat. with her arms full of lilac. Ephie. by one of their fellow-boarders. she stuc the pieces in her hair. As he wal ed bac towards the town." "Well. as Maurice obediently bowed his head. they`reminded her so of eggs. the air that entered was full of pleasant scents." Mrs. put your face right down into the middle of it--li e that. while that of the room was heavy with lilac. and. was infinitely long. pencil and india-rubber slid to the floor. and tried to twist one in the piece of hair that fell on his forehead. and Maurice was beginning to wish he had thought twice before calling. Ephie was sent for. and life. when her voice was heard in the passage. and it was Johanna who put them in water. with her hands clasped behind her head. Maurice again. A little bird. but also the need of forgetting them altogether. she burst into the room. and watched her ma e. tailless notes. conversation languished. the big. but going over to him held up her scented burden." answered Ephie. To-morrow was a day. Mrs. at which she herself was always hugely tic led. he had wor ed off his inward vexation as well. She hardly greeted Maurice. she was not in a studious mood. had whispered her any number of interesting things about                               . and Maurice hasn't either. Again. but did not come. which she explained had been bought early that morning at the flower-mar et. But on this particular evening. and Johanna went out on an errand. in her music-boo . he followed an impulse to go to Ephie and to let her merry laugh wipe out the last traces of his ill-humour. He now felt not only an aversion to dwelling on his thoughts of an hour bac . He went steadily on. "Don't be silly. and was not content till he had buried his face in it. Cayhill laughed. You behave as if you had never seen lilac before. "You shall smell it too. and. Ephie had ta en a spray from one of the vases. Mrs. it seemed. Both windows were wide open. But then she left them lying on the table. What did all these others matter to him? They could not hinder him from carrying through what he had set his mind on. and when Maurice chid her for thoughtlessly destroying it. considered thus in days and opportunities. neither I have--not such lilac as this. she also put bits behind Maurice's ears. And. and the next was another. Cayhill withdrew to her bedroom to be undisturbed.

she remained more subdued than usual. Now. And Maurice. but. without reflecting. as soon as it was done. He was not. where nothing but lilac grew--grew with a luxuriance he could not have believed possible. To all he said."                         . "I had no idea. flower-bedec ed head between his hands. he was not given to thin ing much about her. But when Maurice had gone. and was so provo ing that. in laughing exasperation. prepared for the effect of his hasty deed.Madeleine and Maurice. What's the matter? It was nothing. small. which had nothing to do with Ephie. but at least a quarter of an hour elapsed before he succeeded in comforting her. to his surprise. that his crime had been so great "But Ephie dear!" he protested. from there. the young man saw that she had tears in her eyes. but not for long. In vain did he beg her to tell him vexed. as he wal ed away. Don't cry. wiped away her own hand erchief. and dropped a curtsy to herself in the loc ing-glass. He dreamt that he was in a garden. and stopped her lips with two sound isses. Ephie turned scarlet. a horrid brute! I shall never forgive you--never!" said Ephie. upon my word I hadn't. and coaxing her to sit down. "Him. That night he had a vivid dream. after the direct provocation she had given him. and was consequently dumfounded. when he was not actually with Ephie. but her face was grave. she only shoo her head. he felt a curious sense of satisfaction. you are. however. Besides. for between these two. so that all the blossoms fell from her hair at once. Maurice too her fluffy. she clasped her hands at the bac of her nec . he could not believe. with a charming impertinence. and even then. and she had stored them all up. He had never nown Ephie to be even annoyed. She nodded at her reflected self. wondered to himself for still a little why she should have been so disproportionately angry. she repeated them." "Yes. I'm a brute. too!" she said aloud. stamped her foot. He acted impulsively. He vowed solemnly that it should never happen again. "Maurice Guest! How dare you!" she cried angrily. and on fantastic bushes: there were bushes li e             He put his arm tears with his why she was so answered: "You round her. and jumping up from the sofa. blue-robed figures was a deep and unsuspected secret. and she had dropped the scattered sprays of lilac out of the window on his head. and had no right to do it. to hear Furst play Brahms' VARIATIONS ON A THEME BY HANDEL VIII. and. and was li e a ind of unconscious revenge ta en on some one else. for. that you would ta e it li e this. and then she began to cry in earnest. he went straight to the latter half of an ABENDANTERKALTUNG.

which Johanna had lent him. and at this moment. she seemed hardly to move. is poetry"--he ran quic ly and disparagingly through Maurice's little volume. It has all been gathered. he stopped playing and held the boo in both hands. he saw that it had been an illusion: the bush was stripped and bare. he found that it was not she after all. and in flower--an extravagant profusion of white and purple blossoms. "I don't care much for poetry myself. her laden arms outstretched. Her steps grew more hesitating. as we                                         . He had hardly begun anew when the door of his room was unceremoniously opened. in the jocose way he adopted when in a rosy mood. I find it too stimulating. could not lift hand or foot. but he could not stir. of course. She smiled and nodded to him over it. opens up so many new ideas. "Liszt used to read the newspaper. He gazed round him in delight. coming towards him. that must be digested. Furst's playing had made a profound impression on him. He did not belie himself on this occasion. and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. "Why. he propped open before him a little volume of Goethe's poems. indeed? For those who can do it." said Maurice. but. I see. too. Dove had espied it. that I stop myself and say: 'Old fellow. when I say I find it a difficult business to read at all?--at any time. read through one after another of the poems he li ed best. he discovered his mista e: it was not Ephie but Louise. but all were of lilac. why not?" agreed Dove cordially. In vigorous imitation. but when she was half-way down the path. and he would have given his life to be able to advance and to ta e what she offered him. but Madeleine. li e a melody that haunts and recalls. remember!"--The revulsion of feeling was too great. her arms full of lilac. before he could reach the nearest bush. and then. At a particular favourite. for the sa e of saying something. who laughed at his disappointment and said: "I'm not offended. broad and slender. he turned away. for wee s now. She came slowly forward. one hand inserted between his crossed nees--"will you believe me. and he yawned as he spo e. There's so much in life worth nowing that is true. yes. and settled into an attitude for tal ing. and then. "You're too late. Guest"--here he seated himself. too ANREGEND. and he heard her laugh. and Dove entered. and suiting his scales to the metre of the lines. he was extremely astonished to find Maurice "still at it. But he wor ed more laboriously than usual." but much more so to see a boo open before him. he sat down to the piano again. I wish I could. But will you believe me. This dream was present to him all the morning. for he was aggrieved with himself for having idled away the previous afternoon." he heard a voice say. just as she reached the spot where he stood. but was too late. and too an eager step forward. afraid lest he had seemed discouraging. without ta ing the flowers she held out to him--and awo e. I have been trying to read PAST AND PRESENT. but as he was only playing scales. and besides. he saw Ephie at the end of a long alley of bushes. and laid it down again. and have not yet got beyond the first page. Maurice made a movement to conceal his boo . without attempting to disguise it. It gives one so much to thin about. big and little. "Why not. after a hasty dinner snatched in the neighbourhood. and the rest were bare as well. and he vented his surprise loudly and wordily. don't you now? I assure you. or of some use to one.steeples and bushes smaller than himself. or for novels either.' This. merely in order to avoid the explanation he new must follow. He had swung round in the piano-chair.

This was mail-day for America." she was accustomed to say." she said laughingly to Dove. They found Madeleine before her writing-table.all now. and did not seem to hear." This was a "Manchester man" and former pupil of Halle's. it transpired. after all. "You should have stayed. Some one came." But Dove only smiled and loo ed sly. she explained. and especially in how far it was to be considered a purely intellectual implement. Dove had reasons for seeing the world through rose-coloured glasses. to propose that Maurice should accompany him that evening to the theatre. nay." The object of Dove's visit was. they went together to the MOZARTSTRASSE. it will be a fine performance. He spo e with the utmost good-nature. Dove. out of the fulness of his heart. that they should also invite Madeleine to join them. fact is stranger than fiction. she had thought of it herself. the leading motives on which the WALKURE was built up. where he had been permitted to sit and hear him practise finger-exercises. more easily than we do an octave. and was so unconscious of being a bore that it was impossible to ta e him amiss. and tossed it to the others. whom he. on this day. then. and as. "And a stretch!--I have never seen anything li e it. a girl she new had as ed her to come to hear her play in ENSEMBLESPIEL. "A touch li e velvet. I will let that slip. but Dove had seized the opportunity of glancing at his cravat in the mirror. At Maurice. He spans a tenth. although he could not conceal his opinion that Furst's star would ultimately pale before that of a new-comer to the town. strummed and whistled all those he new by heart. and it would certainly not be long before he set the place in a stir. Madeleine began to detail to Maurice. she rose and gave a hand to each." They spo e also of Furst's performance the evening before. "However. Maurice was nothing loath to have the meeting with her over. having hummed. and begged the young men to excuse her finishing an important letter to an American journalist. though it was not quite three o'cloc . which was strewn with closely written sheets. Dove had just come from his lodgings.                         . with whom she had once "chummed up" on a trip to Italy. Having addressed and stamped the envelope. Schelper and Moran-Olden are to sing. had been "putting up to things a bit. Without delay. she smiled in a significant way. "or you would not be of the party. and so. settled down to a discourse on the legitimacy and development of the motive. a late addition to the list of Schwarz's pupils. and Dove gave it its due." Maurice laid an imploring finger on his lips. an eleventh. and Dove. he suggested. where DIE WALKURE was to be performed. She agreed willingly to their plan of going to the theatre. my son." declared Dove. I suppose some one is to be there. "One never nows when these people may be of use to one.

when he was interrupted by a noc at the door. Otherwise. and began to hint at the IDEE FIXE of Berlioz. he let nothing that he had once heard escape him. of a smooth. with feathers and an overhanging brim. close-fitting blac dress. of connecting them. he had an unwritten treatise ripe in his brain. and being by nature endowed with an excellent memory. but before anything further could be said. Both watched Louise. But her sarcasm was lost on Dove. in self-defence. It was always a mystery to his friends where Dove got his information. could not resist. held the bac of it firmly with both hands. it was only Madeleine who appreciated the cost and care of this seeming simplicity. so he also gathered in stray scraps of thought and information. little but the practical nowledge of it. "Why. she hesitated. and ta ing his stand behind it. The young men were standing. He had. with her arms upraised. throwing in a "Really!" "How extraordinary!" "You don't say so!" among his abstruse remar s. however. or "just on their account did not hurry. from time to time. and made her eyes seem dar er than ever. shiny stuff. and even if he had noticed it. besides. but she did not hurry on their account. of course you now you may. "HEREIN!" cried Madeleine in her clear voice. composedly aware of being observed. "May I come in?" she as ed." Here. being too sensible and good-humoured easily to ta e offence. Maurice still behind his chair. in the circles to which he belonged." said Madeleine with some asperity. she wore a large blac hat. which threw shadows on her face. "By no means a fool. It was Louise. smiled a faint questioning smile at Madeleine. and. To their eyes. and came forward to the table at which they had been sitting. On seeing the two young men. Maurice involuntarily started up from his chair. and followed her movements. with the door-handle still in her hand. unhit. And so Louise entered. raising her eyebrows and showing a thin line of white between her lips. they could see the line of her side rising and falling with the rise and fall of each breath. waiting to greet her. But just as he went about pic ing up small items of gossip. But he had only just compared the individual motives to the lettered ribbons that issue from the mouths of the figures in medieval pictures." Madeleine was in the habit of saying of him. and at the sight of the person who opened the door. and giving them a varnish of originality. he was never seen to read. She wore a plain. and." as Madeleine mentally remar ed. on the leading motive as handled by Wagner and Wagner's forerunners. the tal er's gift of neatly stringing together these tags he had pulled off other people. which obeyed and emphasised the lines and outlines of her body. she appeared to be very simply dressed. and there was little theorising about art. "He would be easier to deal with if he were.                                 .Madeleine. as she stood. he would only have smiled. with her head a little on one side. she raised her arms to catch up a piece of hair which had fallen loose on her nec .

and would. with Dove's assistance. but his voice shoo . and she was going again. unopposed. having let his outstretched hand fall. And now Dove. "Offended? I with you?" He meant to laugh. "and is wretched if there's a cloud in the s y." said Madeleine. And to give one's hand for the first time on a Friday would bring bad luc --to you. on which he would probably never set foot. and                                                 . "No. loo ed at his watch and too up his hat: he had previously offered. throughout. if not to me. He realised anew. who. openly astonished. did not ta e any notice of her." she said. to do the long wait outside the theatre. and Maurice. and then Maurice had a chance of observing her at his ease." She was serious. but also at the tone in which they were said. although herself not clear why she should have answered these searching eyes. and the strange. she loo ed out of the window at the lowering grey s y. and put both it and her left hand behind her bac . was loo ing through a pile of music. which was necessary when one had no tic ets. no. but before he could ta e it. and Dove--to Madeleine's diversion and Maurice's intense disgust--introduced Maurice to her as his friend." he said. which touched him li e a caress. "I mustn't sha e hands with you to-day. fervent gaze bent on her by this man whom she saw for the first time in her life. Today is Friday. and then. in which he heard all manner of impossible things. loo ing at Maurice: "I come from Australia. he new and could now nothing. and of listening to her voice. spea ing out of this feeling. and he saw her strong white teeth. a sense of desolation overcame him. are you?" She had a low voice. with a shudder: "What a day for June!" All eyes followed hers. had ept in the bac ground. he believed. and said. His words sounded foolish as they lingered on in the stillness that followed them. "It's not quite as bad as that. who was charitably occupying Dove as long as she could. She did not seem to notice his discomfiture. she shoo hands with Dove. but almost instantly he brought them bac again to her face." Louise smiled. Louise came suddenly up to him and said: "You are not offended with me. She loo ed full at the latter. coloured. but both the others laughed. confused her and made her uneasy. and smiled rather foolishly. Maurice's with the rest. the music had been found. she added.Letting her arms drop with a sigh of relief. she began to spea of a piece of music she wished to borrow. She stared at him. Maurice would not. But while Madeleine. not only at his words. but on hearing the name of this distant land. but Madeleine. And as the young man continued to stare at her. her home. But he had not much time in which to repent of them. "Louise is a true Southerner. what an utter stranger he was to her. and then was vexed with himself for having done so. of her past life. "That is very far away. at the moment. lay him open to Madeleine's ridicule. turning to Madeleine. her country. and held out her hand. she withdrew it again. He heard her refuse an invitation to stay: she had an engagement at half-past four. Slowly and coldly she turned away. have felt much surprise." If she had said she was a visitant from another world. with a childish cadence in it. with a pang." she said.

he could afford now to admit it. whom he had called by her name. lest--lest . was nominally in C sharp minor. was it to grasp that the meeting had actually come to pass and was over: it had been so ordinary. He was filled with envy of Dove--this was the latter's   She laughed good-naturedly. he went over in memory all that had just ta en place. her gestures--and in the first moments of their meeting. To now her. Besides this. and passed through many eys before it came to a close in D flat major. And when his jubilation at this had subsided. Hardest of all. more desirable. but to spea to her. where he stood with his hands in his poc ets. Everything about her had been different from what he had expected--her voice. to stand before her. lost in thought. She did not ma e any reference to what had passed. but it was blac with accidentals. "Very well--not to-day. even yet he did not venture to thin out the thought. there had been no blast of trumpets. than even he had hoped. But this first sensation of strangeness over. she was grave." While she made tea. gave the lie to false slander and report. and Maurice nursed a faint hope that it was on his account. as he feared she would. had been almost one of disappointment: that came from having dreamed so long of a shadowy being. a setting of a poem by Lenau. that the real she was a stranger to him. and not only to see her. He opened the window. she did not offer to sha e hands again. began blunderingly. Madeleine. and watched them. "LIEBLOS UND OHNE GOTT AUF EINER HAIDE. . without nowing what he was underta ing. leant out. Madeleine smiled shrewdly behind his bac ." sang Madeleine on the high F sharp. but when he turned. He gratefully consented. where she had disappeared from sight. having collected neither his wits nor his fingers. however. until they went round the corner of the street. he returned to the window. he had been chill with fear. . was that not the smallest trifle--no touch of coquetry. he had found her more charming. and let his hands fall from the eys. One shouldn't as you to believe to-day that DIE GANZE WELT IST ZUM VERZWEIFELN TRAURIG. "Not to-day. to a syncopated bass of chords that were adapted to the stretch of no ordinary hand. nor did she. "The very thing for such a night!" They all said "AUF WIEDERSEHEN!" to one another. to be at her side. he recognised it now. and what almost wrung a cry of pleasure from him as he remembered it. and after scrambling through a few bars. But when Louise heard the word theatre. His first impression. put questions to him: instead. came to a dead stop. the right hand had much hard passage-wor in quaint scales and bro en octaves. ungloved hand on Dove's arm. could not right himself. nor had any occult sympathy warned her that she was in the presence of one who had trembled for wee s at the idea of this moment and again he leaned forward and gazed at the spot in the street. so everyday. and as ed him to play the accompaniment for her."                                     . He told himself once more what he found it impossible to believe: that he was going to see Louise again in a few hours. no insincerely spo en word--had marred the perfect impression of the whole.now it was time to go. the most natural thing in the world. she showed him a song of Krafft's. For the song. but Maurice. her smile. she laid a slim.

who was sitting with his bac to the door. Dove would have been still more prompt to ta e leave of his companion. On leaving Louise he made for the theatre with a swinging stride--had he been in the country. had a finger in the pie of their existence. Louise Dufrayer wal ed slowly home to her room in the BRUDERSTRASSE. It engendered a sense of importance. Dove was not actuated by a wholly unselfish motive. than when he. for that evening's performance. consciously or unconsciously. WITHOUT FAIL--these words were deeply underscored--two places in the PARQUET of the theatre. stic in hand. and. he had received. a very fran . without removing his cigarette. so to spea . In the morning. It was not pleasurable anticipation alone that was responsible for Dove's state of mind. Lulu? What                                     . It was just as she had expected: although it was long past the appointed time. On any other day. was present beneath all the friendly cares and attentions he bestowed on people. in order that the others. and for the heightening and radiation of his self-consciousness. At a flower-shop in a big adjoining street. but. and this far outweighed the trifling inconveniences such welldoing implied. he would have slashed off the heads of innumerable green and flowering things. and of afterwards escorting them home. he jostled. and with these in her hands. As it was. she opened. For. and. which. his first letter from Ephie. although he had not ventured. did not hear her enter. coming considerably later might still have a chance of gaining their favourite seats: in doing this. Left to herself. and to stand at the doors for at least three-quarters of an hour. In offering to go early to the theatre. in his mild way. then apologised for his hurry. and the roses under his nose. but did not loo up. He drew his face away from their damp fragrance. with a delightful shoc . Before he could turn. as if by accident. went straight to where Schils y lived. Not the letter alone. he was in the mood to be a little rec less. she bought a bunch of many-coloured roses. and with the world at large. he throve on them. the door of his room.reward for his unfailing readiness to oblige others--and in fancy he saw Dove wal ing street after street at her side. In reality. but by the more complicated one. she had sprung forward. warmly written note. on this particular one. and the reliance it placed in him. he whistled--an unusual thing for him to do in the street--then assumed the air of a man hard pressed for time. Mounting to the third floor of the house in the TALSTRASSE. but so stealthily that the young man. which gave direct on the landing. one or two of those who were unobservant. the two parted from each other shortly after turning the first corner. without ceremony. her arms were round his nec . as ed in a tone of extreme bad temper: "What are you doing here. than when he felt that he was essential to the comfort and well-being of some of his fellow-mortals. gave life fulness and variety. Indeed. he had been one of the first to arrive at the box-office that morning. to ta e himself a seat beside the sisters. but only to throw a hasty loo round. had touched Dove to a deep pleasure. Dove had a touch of Caesarean mania--of a lust for power. He was never more content with himself. in which she relied on his great indness to secure her. Gradually the passers-by began to loo at him with the right amount of attention. unas ed. he was now living in the anticipation of promenading the FOYER with them in the intervals between the acts. he was not there. but also its confiding tone.

and the use to which he intended to put these instruments. he pointed to the sheets of music-paper that lay before him. putting the roses aside with one hand. his ill-temper was vanquished. the properties of the tenor-tuba in B. I suppose?" She said it with her                                       . unpinned her big hat. he raised his head and watched her with a sharp eye. she as ed: "Were you practising as well?" He too no notice of these words.nonsense is this? For God's sa e. and then. "You didn't come." She went bac and closed the door. with his cigarette. But when she began to let her hands stray over the loose papers and other articles that encumbered chairs. leant forward again. while his fingers played some notes on the table. "But is there ever a moment in the day when you don't want me? You are never satisfied. relieved of her weight. While here "--and now he explained to her." He spo e abstractedly. he began jotting again. ma ing notes that were no bigger than pin-heads. And the day has seemed so long. "That gave me the deuce of a bother. she saw that. "I haven't seen you all day. such as she could never subdue. sitting down on his nee. "For goodness' sa e. and she did not trust herself to say more. If only it wouldn't always come. But when he ceased spea ing." Not one of his thoughts was with her. He put his arm round her to steady her. and. I now. "It is enough for to-day." Her face lost its brightness. she rubbed her chee against his. and. she rose from his nee and roamed about the room. and the bass-tuba in F. when I'm in the swing----" "Yes. in detail. piano and washstand. without interest in the answer she might ma e. But she." "To-night?" "If I can. and as soon as he held her to him." But he was too engrossed to listen. with his free hand. can't you?" he said after he had borne her fidgeting for some time. who could point out almost every fresh note he put on paper. watched from the wall by her pictured self. "Loo here. saw plainly that he had not been at wor for more than a quarter of an hour. and threw it and the roses on the bed. "For a very good reason. You now well enough. He tal ed volubly of the instrumentation he was busy with. let those things alone. I've had no time. She heard him with lowered eyes. as he answered: "I must get this finished. yes. while." He tried to free himself. Lulu. lightly caressing the bac of his hand with her finger-tips." he said pointing to a thic -sown bar. Then she laid her hand on his. until. just when I want you most. in a miserable swell of doubt and jealousy. Lulu has been lonely. "You have no secrets from me. shut the door!" She ruffled his hair with her lips.

and let me get something done. "I should thin I could." "Too much?" she echoed. she stooped and issed it. "Now don't ma e a scene. She stood irresolute." She flung herself across the bed and sobbed despairingly. and. not venturing to touch him again. in an uncontrollable rush of feeling. scratched the place where it had lain. That's nothing new. to give her a significant glance. with her fingers in his hair. but my wishes can always be ignored. Lulu. Have you forgotten already that I only came home the day before yesterday?" He loo ed sullen. If this were something you yourself wanted to do to-night." He was pleased and showed it. seizing on his words. Tell me what I have done. but he scowled so dar ly in reply that she went over to him again. This morning I was so depressed that I could have illed myself. "That's right--it's just what you need to cheer you up. and. I can't sit at home this evening. And can't expect to escape a KATER. lightly browned. you call it a scene. neither your wor nor anything else would stand in the way of it. You are always busy when I as you to do anything. "Does it seem so to you? Would days and days of happiness be too much after we have been separated for a wee ?--after Wednesday night?--after what you said to me yesterday?" "Yesterday I was in the devil of a temper. smooth. with ready bitterness. who had again made believe during this outburst to be absorbed in his wor . Standing behind him. As he accepted the caress. you would understand. Or at least eep quiet. Eugen! Why do you treat me li e this? Are you beginning to care less for me? The first evening. the very first. Eugen. without demur. and try to get at the truth--oh. "Good God." He turned his head. You want too much of everything. dear." "But I want you to come. You have time for everything and every one but me. "Good reason for the blues." He shoo his head free of her caressing hand. can't you get it into your head that I want to wor ?" She laughed. Her eyes fell on the piece of nec . I can't do it! If you really loved me. loo ing hungrily at him. It doesn't do a whit of good. cast a loo of mingled anger and discomfort at the prostrate figure. succeeded in continuing his                                                 . to touch him with her hand. she said: "I thought of going to the theatre to-night. Why ra e up old scores? Now go home. I warned you." "A scene!" she cried. quic to resent his words. too. Schils y. you won't stay with me--you haven't even ept that evening free for me--and when I as you about it. And now. she said: "Just to-day I wanted you so much. I get home. "Whenever I open my lips now. worse still.tenderest smile." He struc the table with his fist. when I as you to come out with me--it is such a little thing-oh. that showed between his hair and the low collar. do you remember all the cruel things you said to me yesterday? I shall never forget them as long as I live. Lulu. and for some few moments.

Lulu." She pressed her hand erchief to her lips to eep from bursting anew into sobs. you won't see me afterwards for a wee --I promise you that. "Now. he laid his hands on her shoulders and tried to force her to rise. she put her arms round his nec . and she was clinging to him in silence. don't cry!" he said again and again. but as. Gradually she grew calmer. and no one but you would drag it up again. but when her sobs were hushed. and which made him appear years older than he was. "Come. so careless of anything but itself. which she new. and although his face above her was still dar . why should you?" She felt for his hand. Yesterday I was in a beast of a temper--I've admitted it. darling. he had nown it in so many moods. "You won't have a rag of reputation left. but he was the stronger. His face wore a stubborn expression. He new every line of her face by heart. that he might loo at her. he put his hands on her shoulders and held her bac from him. where. At least. "Don't cry. go home--go to the theatre and enjoy yourself. gazing savagely at the opposite house-wall--before she said: "Don't spea to me li e that. You would throw the whole of one's future into the balance for the sa e of a whim. which only sometimes gave way. "Lulu. his own face began to twitch. and this loud passionate weeping. li e a good girl. did what he could to soothe her. and with a loud expression of annoyance went over to the bed. and he. Instead of being glad that I am in the right mood and can get something done. and you now I eep my word. How often have I told you that!" His moderation swept over into the feverish irritation she new so well how to indle in him. "Now listen to me. and presently he had her on her feet." and bending over her. when the injustice she was guilty of forced itself upon him. with her head on his shoulder.                                                             .occupation with a show of indifference. I'm going--now--this moment. too. I tell you. You now what the student underneath said the last time he met you on the stair." he said persuasively. and his lisp became so mar ed that he was almost unintelligible." he said. and her lips were white. to see or to hear a woman cry. "When you behave in this way again. He could never bear. she wept out the rest of her tears. go!--under any circumstances you ought not to be here." "If I don't care. that he was not as sensitive to its influence as he had once been. and finally he dropped pencil and cigarette. She resisted him with all her might. But that was made all right last night. was still. and there was a brief silence--he stood at the window. He held her to him. "I won't have it. But he turned his bac ." As he only mumbled disbelief at this." He spo e with a ind of dogged restraint. I don't mind you being happy without me. and he stood unwilling. you come here--which you now I have repeatedly forbidden you to do--and ma e a fool of yourself li e this. in place of abating. her sobs grew more heart-rending. rac ed his nerves. and under so many conditions. with his hands in his poc ets. I could not possibly stay on Wednesday night--why didn't you time your arrival better? But it's just li e you. and filled him with an uneasy wrath against invisible powers. I have explained everything to you. I will never do it again--never again. and raised her tear-stained face to his: her eyes were blurred and sun en with crying. Lulu.

The broad expanse of the AUGUSTUSPLATZ facing the theatre was bare and sunny. When. In his arms. A quarter of an hour had still to elapse before the doors opened. A policeman arrived. he said. But you really must be off. sounds came from within the building. they too their places at the end of a queue which extended to the corner of the main building.while she clung to him and let him feel her weight. over-happy at his softening. and. Lulu. in the absolute physical agreement that always overcame their differences. shortly after five o'cloc . it's all right. as she continued mutely to implore forgiveness--she. I'll drop in at the end of the first act. "Now. if I possibly can. with her head on his shoulder. She nestled in against him. in response to her beseeching eyes." And with this. and while she gazed. It was he who loosened his grasp. and ranged themselves at the end of the tail. to acquaint himself with the plot of the opera. a touchstone of his love for her: "Loo here. whom every one envied him--his hasty anger once more subsided. stro ing and smoothing his white gloves. it gathered itself more compactly together. and Maurice borrowed his companion's textboo . More people came hurrying over the square to the theatre. and before they had stood very long." "Yes. which. as so often before. at this face that constituted her world. she murmured words of endearment. and for some moments they stood li e this. Madeleine and Maurice arrived at the New Theatre. and slashed chords across the strings. or you'll be late. the burly policeman placed himself at the head of the line. and all the unsatisfactory day was annulled by these few moments of perfect harmony. preparatory to playing himself bac into the mood she had dissipated. in the FOYER. There was a noise of drawn bolts and grating                                     . He ran his fingers up and down. But when she had sponged her face and pinned on her hat. tried flageolets. she was forced to be content. and ordered the queue in a straighter line. a ind of tremor ran through the waiting line. she smoothed bac his hair. made the granting of this one request. she had grown so interested in what two people behind her were saying that she turned and too part in the conversation. And you?" He had ta en up his violin and was tuning it. so many fresh people had been added to the line. isn't it? No more tears. with adoring eyes. and read studiously. As the hands of the big cloc on the post-office neared the quarter past five. Madeleine too out Wolzogen's FUHRER. Dove was well to the fore. his Lulu. and would be one of the first to gain the box-office. Lulu. Loo out for me then. One cloc after another boomed the single stro e. But he was very fond of her. that it had lengthened out until it all but reached the arch of the theatre-cafe. IX. but. with the intention of brushing up her nowledge of the motives. he put his arms round her and issed her. before she had finished a page. then he strolled up and down.

and the man on the other side of the lattice ree ed of cheap tobacco. and only at this moment did he remove it with a sigh of                                   . was still encased in white wrappings--her and there an attendant began to peel them off. and they easily secured the desired places. one flight after another. It was hot already. Wait till you've watched the men running about the bottom of the Rhine. but the sun en well of the orchestra was in dar ness." As yet. in they flew also. had to strain his eyes to read. light shone out and the big door was flung open. and now. Madeleine had drawn his attention to everything worth noticing. and ta ing their instruments. the great building was empty. directly afterwards. Madeleine leading through the swing-doors at the side of the corridor. late-comers in the audience entered with an air of guilty haste. not in the middle of the gallery. Madeleine and Maurice were to the front of the second batch. the lights throughout the theatre went up. "You see too much--that's the trouble. and applied his ear to the s ins of his instruments. wor ing the cages the Rhine-daughters swim in. and whispered to one another. higher and higher. Madeleine laughed. and. and after a moment's suspense. he turned his head--turned so often that the people in the bac seats grew suspicious. past one. wooden stairs. one. Dove was waiting with the tic ets. pungent odours: some people behind them were eating a strong-smelling sausage. The chief curtain had risen. Maurice had more than once loo ed furtively at his watch. with her opera-glass at her eyes. turned up the lamps attached to their stands.. up the steep. And the arm down. poring over his boo . but the leaders of the queue charged with a will. bordered with a runic scroll. Now the iron fire-curtain rose. and this. the members of the orchestra dropped in. Dove. and attend wholly to what Madeleine was saying. waiting for the conductor. "Gent--ly!" shouted the policeman. "This is first-rate for seeing. with the exception of the gallery. round and round. When they had been in their seats for about a quarter of an hour. made him soon give up the attempt. Now the players were in their seats. from wind and strings. had ever since sat with his opera-glass glued to his face. but at the right-hand side. the monstrous chandelier hid the greater part of the stage. and about a dozen people had dashed forward. and his own sense of pleasurable excitement. where. the lower tiers and the ground floor were sprin led with figures. and soon stray motives and scraps of motives came mounting up. A delightful sense of expectation pervaded the theatre.eeper at the topmost gallery. and. she pointed out to him people whom he ought to now. li e lost birds. Maurice. and the air of the crowded gallery was permeated with various. One by. tiers--a mad race. having eaten a ham-roll at the buffet on the stair.loc s. as Madeleine explained while she tuc ed her hat and jac et under the seat. and the expanse of seats on the ground floor far below. on which those thus hindered leaned as on a bar of iron. and the stage was hidden only by stuff curtains. two. added to the difficulty of the German. before he could throw down a stemming arm. the man of the drums beat a soft rattatoo. commenced to tune and flourish. which ended almost in the arms of the gate. next the lattice that separated the seats at seventy-five from those at fifty pfennigs." said Maurice. three. at every fresh noise behind him.

he stood spea ing to the first violinist. who prompted him alternately. But Siegmund's narration seemed endless. He could not bring himself to as . who gave an angry: "Pst!" "One of the finest love-scenes that was ever written. And Maurice believed her." to add in the same breath: "There's Louise. now that he new her." she said in a loud whisper. Maurice too her opera-glass. and showed Maurice the place in the PARQUET. where Ephie and Johanna Cayhill were sitting. When the curtains parted and disclosed the stage. to the opening bars of the love-song. it was harder than before to bring her name over his lips. the music too him up and carried him with it. "It's one of the few songs Wagner has written. eeping it up so long that Dove disappeared." whispered Madeleine in her decisive way. But at this very moment. "Surely you haven't been expecting her to come up here? PARQUET. "You're not attending. where Hunding had just entered to a pompous measure. and the next moment would climb into his seat. and turned to the stage. and Madeleine said: "The sword motive. Maurice. partly because. he was aided by his companions. and his thoughts wandered in spite of himself. until he received another sharp nudge from Madeleine on his righthand side. To now that she was there was enough to distract him. In his endeavours to understand what followed. or rather there were only plaids in the row. and. and Maurice found the rhythm so inviting that he began eeping time with his foot. he could not find the plaids. he was wondering why Louise did not come--the time had all but gone." said Dove of a sudden. to the indignation of a music-loving policeman behind them." He gave a guilty start." He swayed his head from side to side. and let in the spring night."                       . "There they are." "Ssh!" said at least half a dozen people about them: her voice was audible above the growling of the thunder. fourth row from the front. now the lights have gone. you silly. "Let us go." He loo ed behind him. a peremptory fanfare rang out behind the scene. But the conductor had entered by the orchestra-door. "Listen to this. And this is the only act you'll be able to ma e anything of. travelled his eyes up and down the row she named--naturally without success. and Madeleine grew impatient. but not light enough for him. partly from fear of being disappointed. "Where?" She nudged him. The players held their instruments in readiness--and a question trembled on Maurice's tongue. and there was also more than one head that resembled hers. "Not here." said Madeleine. The interval is none too long. and when the great doors burst open. between two women in plaid dresses--oh. and he was conscious of the music and action of the opera merely as something that was going on outside him. he applauded vigorously with the rest. it was a little lighter.relief. But the young man only glanced cursorily in the direction she indicated. From this point on. notwithstanding the dar ness into which the theatre had been plunged.

a moment after. others went in and out of the doors that opened on the great loggia. at the adjoining buffet. and was indisputable. over the amplitude of which was slung an opera-glass. Having bowed and said: "Lohse" to Maurice. Here the majority of the audience was wal ing round and round. I had forgotten all about it!" But. with an evergrowing sense of disappointment.They went downstairs to the first floor of the building. But Maurice soon discovered that she was out of spirits. half paternal. But Ephie. and a brown froc coat. she was grave and quiet--altogether unli e herself. in a manner half gallant. and loo ed so charming that people drew one another's attention to DIE REIZENDE KLEINE ENGLADNDERIN. but. big-headed chemical student called Dic ensey. "Oh. I thin it's stupid. For fear lest he was the offender. so that they dropped behind the others. and was at this moment doing his best to explain the first act of the opera to Johanna. Maurice remained standing in a corner. id gloves tight to bursting. and had offered to lay a bet that he would never attend a performance in this theatre when the doors of Hunding's house flew open. At the same time. and entered a long. brilliantly lighted corridor. excited crowd. and he hailed Maurice's appearance as a welcome diversion. at exactly the right moment--when Maurice caught sight of Dove and the Cayhills. Meanwhile. Madeleine and Maurice joined the perambulating throng. His face was red with the effort. and try to rally her. and paid her a specious compliment on the taste she displayed in being present at so serious an opera. he had also got himself into a dilemma. And they're all so fat. and. "DIE MORAN" was divine as Brunnhilde. He exchanged a few words with one of his companions of the dinner-table--a small-bodied." This referred to the singers. invited her to ta e ices with him. She was coquettishly dressed this evening. she gazed with contempt on the noisy. seizing both Madeleine's hands. He had just as ed Maurice whether Siegmund reminded him more of a por -butcher or a prizefighter. he made a ceremonious little speech about the length of time that had elapsed since their last meeting. drawing Madeleine's hand through his arm. and said a few words in her hard. Johanna was unspea ably bored and did not conceal it. He excused himself. in gold spectacles. who had a reputation for his cynicism. I'm not. greeted him with pleasure. broad. and went to join them. a stout gentleman. Maurice could only agree with her.                                   . he as ed if she had quite forgiven him. scrutinising those who passed him. Maurice eagerly scanning the faces that came towards him on the opposite side. in a procession of twos and threes. started up from a corner. groups of people also stood at both ends and loo ed on. Madeleine bowing and smiling to her acquaintances. facile German: the best was yet to come. Suddenly. too. without touching on the relationship of the lovers. and touching his arm. the stranger too no further notice of him. he continued surreptitiously to scour the hall. and disposed to be cross. Madeleine laughed. or the sword lit up. Ephie?" "No. "Are you not enjoying yourself. Not one of the three loo ed happy. drew him bac . wor ed them up and down. Dove was not only burning to devote himself to Ephie. and if they were good friends again.

he yawned long and heartily. had in tow a fellow-singer about half her own size. Louise. The familiarity of the action grated on Maurice.                                                 . absent smile on her lips. and he turned away his head. As Ephie and Maurice passed them. she. and. In spite of his shabby clothes. Schils y leant against the wall. which was pleasant with the scent of lilac. shoo his head.They all caught sight of Schils y at the same moment. still in the same position. without troubling to excuse himself. the wan little American stood disconsolately apart. "Let us go out on the balcony. he had been pounced on by Miss Jensen. too. with a faint. where they leaned against one of the pillars. but Schils y. he made a precarious living by journalism. on this occasion. and was full of gracious attentiveness to the little man at her side. showed all his defective teeth. and was full of criticisms and objections. and followed the direction of the other's eyes. suddenly. he found himself again in the neighbourhood of the other two. restlessly scanned the crowd. she needed specially receptive ears. had polished manners and an air of refinement. but Schils y was plainly conversing by means of signs with some one else. and so he lost the couple he wanted to eep in sight. his hands in his poc ets. prematurely bald. he was tal ing to his companion with vivacity. and. he saw Louise. his conspicuous head well bac . and Maurice. and its immediate effect: Louise flashed into a smile. she nodded to the latter and said: "Good evening. and she was all in white. for Miss Jensen was paying no attention to him. showily dressed in a large-striped stuff. with his legs crossed. It was plain that Louise was only half listening to him. and. laid a finger on his lips. As Maurice and Ephie came up. But at the first pause in the conversation. among those who were passing in the opposite direction. he was disturbed anew. thoroughly enjoying his position. Furtively watching them. with heavy white lace at her nec . and Maurice followed her to the edge of the parapet. seizing the chance. was loo ing out over the square. leaning both hands on the stone-wor . Ephie led the way. for she had been studying the role of Sieglinde. Ephie pluc ed at his sleeve. but. with dissipated features. at the same time. Here. which were fixed on the corner where he   Then. saw as well the quic loo that passed between Louise and him. had his bac to it. Louise was leaning forward. Her companion was an Englishman called Eggis. in so doing. of whom it was rumoured that he had found it advisable abruptly to leave his native land: here. He frowned. and was letting his eyes range indifferently over the faces before him. "Who's he doing that to?" Maurice as ed himself." They went outside on the loggia. The latter. where groups of people stood refreshing themselves in the mild evening air. a moment or two later. as if by chance. lounging as before. neighbour!" while Schils y. Thus deserted. with his hands in his poc ets. Miss Jensen detained Maurice. whom she was rarely to be seen without. on whom nothing was lost. and besides. In a flash he understood why he had not been able to find her in the row of seats: he had loo ed for her in a blac dress. on this evening. she had a wea ness for Schils y. On entering the FOYER. When he loo ed again. In common with the rest of her sex. half closed his eyes. he touched with his fingertips the lace she wore at the front of her dress. Maurice saw him lean towards his companion and say something to her. bro e away. this man. and by doing odd jobs for the consulate.

Among the first were Louise and Schils y. as he did this. stooping. "Pert little thing! But I suppose even such sparrow-brains have their troubles. and thereupon they went indoors again. and. "I'm poor company to-night. I'll stop now I'm here--oh. "It's no wonder. but this time Schils y saw that he was being watched. He turned. her expression was set and defiant. Maurice loo ed bac at the young man.and Ephie stood. who had been searching everywhere for Maurice. and loo ed at her in perplexity. I guess the others are in front. "But you are quiet. feeling already the need of apologising to her for his ridiculous suspicion." she replied pettishly. But at least my nose isn't red as well." "Would you li e to go home?" "Of course I wouldn't. and with it more of the hopes he had nursed. Ephie. and." said Madeleine as she and Maurice climbed to the gallery." He glanced down at her as he spo e. and again was startled. can't we go quic er? How slow you are! Do ma e haste. in the pleasing consciousness that she was having a successful evening. upstairs and down. All this passed li e a flash." They pressed towards the door. "I will go. they came upon Madeleine. "But I thin it's just as dull and stupid as it can be. I'm sure. I wish I hadn't come. "What's the matter? I believe you are angry with me for being so silent. "Your dress is very pretty. but her baby lips trembled. tossed her head. and loo ed from side to side. While he contemplated getting her into a quiet corner and ma ing her tell him truthfully what the matter was. The theatre is as hot as an oven." Madeleine was on the point of retorting." "I guess it doesn't ma e any difference to me whether you tal or not. who stood fidgeting beside them. "You loo nice." she remar ed in her patronising way. but it left. he said a nonchalant word to his companion. and the electric bells rang shrilly. He had just realised that the longed-for interval was over." said Ephie hurriedly." he said. she brought her good spirits to bear on Ephie. the interval came to an end. too.                                         . and she was gazing hard at Schils y. too. he caught a glimpse of Ephie's face." said Maurice. But why is your face so red? One would thin you had been crying." Ephie. child. I'll find my way all right." "There's something wrong with that child to-night. none the less. the latter's head as usual visible above every one else's. a disagreeable impression." "I suppose they have. but at this moment. and before Maurice had recovered from it." He thought he heard tears in her voice. Madeleine had more colour in her chee s than usual. With a rush of enlightenment. "No. growing still redder. don't bother to come with me. which made him observe her more nearly: it was flushed. Ephie said: "Let us go in. The people who were nearest the doors went out at once.

while as for Louise--Maurice staring hard from his point of vantage could not have believed it possible for her face to change in this way. Madeleine was surprised too. they did not exchange word or loo with each other. This time there could be no doubt whatever. he raised the opera-glass to his eyes again. didn't you? Probably she has only changed her seat. and as soon as he had finished eating. there's Boehmer with his widow--see. "I want to borrow some money from you. loo . he was perplexed and bored. She stopped her gossip to say: "You thought she had gone. would stay. She stood there. underneath. eating another roll. and his loose. and he found the various scenes intolerably long. but he said he would not go downstairs. and when the curtains fell. but the latter smiled wintrily in return. It's positively indecent. "Louise! Is it you? And alone?" The girl did not respond. They had gone home then. Madeleine tal ed without a pause. Maurice saw Schils y and Louise. and they. to his astonishment. Behind his bac . When. this long and disappointing evening came to an end. the last of the gallery-audience to leave. This second act had no meaning for him. Madeleine whispered a mischievous remar to Maurice. but not a word was to be got out of him. He moved along to ma e room for them. And oh.Dove was already in his seat.                                 . in her white dress. but also. as long as the two below were in sight. He uttered an involuntary exclamation." Her strictures were justifiable. a little distance further off.nitted body seemed to hang together more loosely than usual. Maurice's heart leapt to his throat to discover. Louise. and Madeleine understood it. but is crazy about Boehmer. and her mobile mouth was hard. The others rose. was going round as before. not a single white dress was in the row. with a thin scarf over her head. as they turned the last bend. They do that sometimes--he hates PARQUET. an hour later. joined in the applause merely to save appearances. after a pause: "How cross she loo s! She's evidently in a temper about something. "Did you ever see such a gloomy air? He might sit for Werther to-night." At this juncture. through a little half-moon window that gave on the FOYER below. and as often as they came round." And. She's over forty and has buried two husbands. He had searched swiftly and thoroughly up and down the fourth row of the PARQUET. "Loo at Dove!" She pointed him out as he went by with the two sisters. I never saw people hide their feelings as badly as they do. and Madeleine's explanations were insufficient. the pretty fattish little woman. where the air was better. he would not see her again--and once more the provo ing dar ness enveloped the theatre. Dove volunteered no further aid. too. and towards the middle a seat was vacant. not only the two Cayhills waiting for them. they watched the living stream which. had tramped down the wooden stairs. they descended to a lower floor and there. They say she's going to marry him. She loo ed suddenly older. after a tedious colloquy between Brunnhilde and Wotan. Madeleine said she. and when they had drawn bac to let Dove push by and hurry away. though he's more than twenty years younger than she is. only to find that Louise was not in it. and very tired. After they had promenaded several times up and down. However they would at least go into the corridor. to the more human strains of the FEUERZAUBER. Schils y frowned sul ily.

"You now my friend Guest. Dove and Louise brought up the rear. "Mr. and the required sum was made up. said good-naturedly to Johanna: "Well. without finding any want of correctness on his part. But Dove had only one thought: to be in Maurice's place. I thin . she had not been able to find her purse. And yet I had it only this morning." Louise was moody and preoccupied. He stammered a few words. he coloured and hesitated. I came down here to Mar wald's. while she settled her debt. now they would not out. it would be interesting to hear what he has to say. having rac ed his brains to no better result--not for the world would he have had his companion suspect his anxiety to leave her. had marched round to Ephie's side. And when Dove." she said. and. we want your opinion of the WALKURE. "Let us as him. Louise. Before she came out again. She said nothing. a very clever fellow. Louise explained. Madeleine was not sure if she had more than a couple of mar s in her purse. I wonder what his impressions of the opera were. in one of those colourless voices that preclude further questioning. Guest. whatever it was. Schwarz thin s a great deal of him. and after one of the most embarrassing pauses he had ever experienced. and ready to start for the theatre. and confirmed this on loo ing through it under a lamp. Maurice was still more disconcerted at the mar ed way in which she slac ened her pace to let the other two get in front. called Maurice bac to her. "He's a clever fellow. Madeleine cast her eyes over the group. I suppose we shall wal together as far as we can. Believing. As they wal ed across the square. Ephie had behaved so strangely in the theatre. without further ado. They quic ened their steps and overtoo the others." he said at last. This was his first experience of Wagner." she said. and as ed him to carry her opera-glass. then Ephie came round to his side." Confused to find her suddenly beside him. with the shopman bowing behind her. and. he had certainly done something to offend her. but both young men put their hands in their poc ets. but no sooner had Louise appeared again. I did not hear much of the music. Shall you and I lead off?" Maurice had a sudden vision of bliss. matter-of-course air that admitted of no rebuff. and he let me have the seats on trust. having made a rapid surmise. Only a moment ago he had had several things worth saying on his tongue. too. that he heard a note of moc ery in her voice. without smiling. Dressed. I said I would go in afterwards. left slightly to herself. but Dove's words made her smile. who had merely exchanged one chance companion for another. "I loo ed everywhere. he must ma e it good without delay. and bro e down in them half-way. with a naive. At the last moment. He nows me." But Louise. he avowed in a burst of forlorn courage: "To tell the truth." They waited outside the tobacconist's.                                                 .Madeleine--about five or six mar s. although he had more than once gone over his conduct of the past wee .

and they went on in silence. She turned and considered him. He must say something that would rouse her to the fact of his existence. in the summer dar ness. and Madeleine return to them. For." He had done what he had hoped to do. He had no time to choose his phrases. and the absurdity that was latent in the words themselves. "I never saw you in my life till to-day. is quite hard enough to ta e care of. . how once before. well. I mean." he said bluntly. or in a mood to show leniency. and the walls of the dar houses they were passing seemed to the young man to re-echo the sound. Maurice loo ed stealthily at her: her white scarf had slipped bac and her wavy head was bare. and ma e her remember him when he was not there. . and. But as he stole glances at her thus.did not as the reason. "The first time I saw you. my own peace of mind. It was one evening in Schwarz's room--in April--months ago. her thoughts had nothing to do with him. the audacity he had been guilty of. of course. will not remember it. without having a stranger's thrown at me! What do you mean by ma ing me responsible for it! I have never                                         . she had eluded the matter with an indifferent word. "Since then . and gave a nervous laugh at his own daring. with the same show of boldness--"you." continued Maurice. "Your peace of mind!" She repeated the words after him. I have thought about you more than--than is good for my peace of mind. you did not now who I was. But they were half way down the GRIMMAISCHESTRASSE. laughed. Miss Dufrayer. and it is all the same to me whether I do or not. though a cold hand gripped his throat at the thought. as you call it. . his manner of saying some simple thing had affected her disagreeably. he wa ened to a sudden consciousness of what was happening to him: here and now. he new her.--Oh. I . after long wee s of waiting. . And since then. at the end. Dove and the Cayhills would branch off. unreproved. that day. he too the resolve not to let this moment pass him by. she was not in a mood to do this. with such an ironical emphasis that his unreflected courage curled and shrivelled. was alone with her. "But I new you very well--by sight. empty-handed. as they fell from her lips. . where the PETERSTRASSE crossed it. well . or display any interest in his confession. I have seen you often--very often. . had arrested her attention. He wished the ground had swallowed him up before he had said them. Then." For a moment amazement ept her silent. and she welcomed the excuse to vent her own bitterness on another. "He hesitated. of course. "When I was introduced to you this afternoon. I----" She was gazing at him now. growing extravagantly angry. struc him in the face li e pellets of hail. at war with herself. something that would linger in her mind. in surprise. too. She had not heard what he said. struc by the tone in which he spo e. She was dispirited. he told himself. he was wal ing at her side. I may never see you again. now. "Your peace of mind! What has your peace of mind to do with me?" she cried. then she. . She remembered at this minute. . "And since then--well?" "Since then .

. All you others lead such quiet lives. now it softened. Madeleine drew her own conclusions as she wal ed the rest of the way home between two pale and silent people. Peace of mind! I have never even been passably content. too. . To-night. for instance. she could not help smiling at his fran gesture of dismay. Through a ind of mist. how can you misunderstand me so cruelly!" His consternation was so palpable that it touched her in spite of herself. "I shall never do it. Every day I as myself why I have not thrown myself out of the window. "To help. and I can ma e nothing of it--nothing! If I were a man. then let them drop to her sides again. There was a silence. Something is always wanting. . . There is nothing in the world I wouldn't do to help you. for not a syllable was to be drawn from him." All the foolish castles Maurice had built came tumbling about his cars. and she spo e more indly. her fluency made him tongue-tied. bareheaded. through the woods. To-night I am tired ." Wrapped up though she was in herself. He grew pale and did not venture to loo at her. and you couldn't understand though you tried. . anything you li e. and.done anything to you. when the night itself is not large enough to hold it all!----" She threw out her hands to emphasise her helplessness. Her face had been as naively miserable as a child's. . He struggled with his embarrassment until they were all but within earshot of the rest. . . . and put an end to it. . one must understand. There was a general leave-ta ing. She had seen. if you would let me . But at least. they had reached the corner where the others waited. As they crossed the ROSSPLATZ. and she hardly moved her lips when she bade him good-night. and too afraid of death. "Don't be afraid." he ended fervently. I feel so much energy in me. "you will see how ridiculous it is for you to tal to me of your peace of mind. "If I . on coming out of the theatre. which lay wide and deserted in the                                     . you now nothing of what goes on in a life li e mine. to be cooped up inside four walls ." A wave of compassion drowned his petty feelings of injury. have a headache . or over one of the bridges into the river. She did not reply. at the bottom of the street. "Ma e you responsible! Oh. . after several unavailing attempts she let him alone. I should wal for hours. I'm too fond of life. Maurice had evidently been made to suffer under it. . "Don't mind what I say. But to be a woman . "Help me?--you?" She laughed. and his sympathy found vent in a few inadequate words. Maurice saw that Ephie's face still wore a hostile loo ." she caught herself up again. for Maurice could not thin of anything to say. and the smile lingered on her lips. in an unhappy way. that Louise was in one of her bad moods--a fact easily to be accounted for by Schils y's absence." she said.

" she said "What a creature you are! For my part. and the night is so long. Maurice. Louise loo ed from her to Maurice. and at Maurice's seconding of it. and they stepped into a commodious lobby. Or else I am sure to forget. with three windows. After lighting a taper. "Louise!" she said warningly." said the girl. and entered in front of her companions. and a wooden seat was attached to the wall. Wal to Grimma if you want to. and laughed so ungovernably that Madeleine was again driven to remonstrance. instead of going home. we wal to Connewitz?" At this proposal. and thic mahogany banisters. Oh. But don't let me hinder you. it was solidly built. side by side. and mounted a flight of broad and very shallow stairs. which stood free on all sides. had massive doors with heavy brass fittings. Mr. "Of course." and he crossed the threshold behind them. too." "You thought I meant it. who had lapsed once more into her former indifference. and remembering what had passed between them. Guest? It will only ta e a few minutes." Madeleine was not a night-bird. half-way up. Madeleine new her better. a writing-table was covered with bric-a-brac. a large and a small one." "What do you say? Shall you and I go on?" Louise turned to Maurice. off which several rooms opened. She led the way to the furthest of these. The house had been a fine one in its day. and one end of it was shut off by a high screen. if you laugh li e that. I decline with than s. "Maurice has wor to do to-morrow. Maurice. found himself close to a grand piano. they entered a paved vestibule. and the young man did not now whether she spo e in jest or in earnest. was open. it's still early. which stretched almost from wall to wall. There Louise. "That is just li e one of your crazy notions. hesitating just inside the door. Come along. No one can thin of sleep yet. she spo e more gently than she had yet done. "For goodness' sa e. and disorderly with music. It was a large room. but she was also not averse to having a debt paid. Louise said abruptly: "Suppose. there was a deep recess for pot-plants. seeing his unhappy face. "I will loo for the purse again. too. and then I can give you what I owe you. as ed Madeleine to come upstairs with her. A deep sofa stood in an oriel-window. and three tall flower-vases were filled with purple lilac. Louise unloc ed the larger.starlight. Maurice felt that he ought to refuse. Madeleine laughed with healthy derision. But there was a general air of untidiness about the room. for strewn over the chairs and tables were numerous small                                     . On the first floor were two doors. "Will you come." she said. it was late." Nothing more was said until they stood before the housedoor in the BRUDERSTRASSE. But Madeleine answered for him. be quiet! We shall have a policeman after us. and need all my wits. and. I have to get a Moscheles ETUDE ready by to-morrow afternoon.

will you not?" It was to Maurice she spo e. She disappeared behind the screen. however. "How stupid of me! I might have nown." and letting her eyes dance at Maurice. When Maurice held the candle above the writing-table. "So many things have gone down there in their day. Once a silver hair-brush that I was fond of." she said contritely. he lighted three large photographs of Schils y." she said. "But come in. her chee s had a tinge of colour in them. At last.articles of dress and the toilet-hairpins. a hat and a s irt--all traces of her intimate presence. they discovered the purse between the bac of the sofa and the seat. "It seems to be a letter for you. while she searched in li ely and unli ely places--inside the piano. one more dandified than the other. and he was obliged to raise his other hand to steady the candlestic . You will help me to loo . in empty vases. and I sometimes loo there when bangles or hat-pins are missing. "And you must                                                         ." and when Madeleine hinted that Maurice might not find it too troublesome to come bac with the change the following day. Mr. and Maurice lighted her round the room. and saying: "Yes. and came out bareheaded. Then she lit two candles that stood on the piano in brass candlestic s. I would rather you did." she said to Maurice on parting. except for a few nic el coins. and now it was she who referred to the lateness of the hour. and some more light." she urged. ta e one of the twenty-mar pieces. she buttoned the note in the bosom of her dress. "Now we will loo for the purse. When she loo ed up again. With no regard for appearances. how hot the room is!--and the lilac is stifling. her smile was radiant and infectious. "Yes. not only with her eyes: but with her parted lips and eager hands. But the hands of the cloc on the writing-table were nearing half-past eleven." She caught at it with a ind of avidity. and the required change could not be made up. I shall thin you are offended with me. and came after them herself. Madeleine. she threw bac her head and laughed." smiled at him with such a gracious warmth that it was all he could do to reply with a decent unconcern. until Madeleine said that this was only nonsense. Guest would be so ind. As she lifted the lamp from the writing-table to place it on the square table before the sofa. First the windows open! And then this scarf off. tore it open. and heedless of their presence. with a childli e upturning of her face to his--an irresistibly confiding gesture. "Than you very much. the purse was found to contain only gold. Madeleine called her attention to a folded paper that had lain beneath it. in the folds of the curtains--laughing at herself as she did so. a veil. she turned to the young man. another difficulty arose. Oh. devoured it. following a hint from Madeleine. "Never mind. if Mr. Guest--you are still standing at the door. nestling with both hands at the coil of hair on her nec . and now Louise remembered that it had been in the poc et of her dressing-gown that afternoon. her eyes shone li e faceted jewels. Here.

after she had heard the opera." "If my opinion had been as ed. Johanna had several times glanced inquiringly at her sister. "You call that music." Only a few minutes bac . but it was impossible for them to wal the whole way home as mum as this." She laughed and held out her hand. He was bewildered. and as he did not find her in on three successive days. Now. Johanna could only conclude that the two had fallen out. and she meant what she said. but Ephie had turned away her head." said Dove. as they turned into the PROMENADE.                                 . he did not venture to return. before a word was exchanged between them. Madeleine had let fall such a vile suspicion that he had parted from her in anger. simply because she never thwarted Ephie if she could avoid it. Johanna said with a jer . with a suggestion of patronage. and had gone to the theatre against her will. And the latter was torturous. as they wal ed. After parting from the rest. a mere phantasm born of the dar . than goodness. and with an aggressiveness that she could not subdue: "Well. He wrote his name on a card." "Is not that just a little rash?" as ed Dove. unruffled. but there was also a preoccupation in his manner. But Louise was not at home. for instance. I should certainly have suggested something lighter--LOHENGRIN OR TANNHAUSER. calling as he went that if he believed what she said to be true. "You would have done us a favour if you had. And I am very much obliged to you--for everything. and went home to pass alternately from a mood of rapture to one of jealous despair. so that only the outline of her chee was visible. he called at the BRUDERSTRASSE with the change. So. that is the first and the last time anyone shall persuade me to go to a so-called opera by Wagner. Good night. and left this. "I wouldn't sha e hands with you this afternoon. but now--if you will? For to-night I am not superstitious. which showed that he was thin ing of other things. It was something novel for her to be obliged to tal when Ephie was present.forget the nonsense I tal ed this evening. he had been steeped in pity for her. He smiled. Dove and the two Cayhills continued their way in silence: they were in the shadow thrown by the steep vaulting of the THOMASKIRCHE. X." replied Johanna. for. he would never put faith in a human being again. I didn't mean it--not a word of it. especially as Dove had already heaved more than one deep sigh. of course. she   In the light of the morning. he new that it was incredible. but at least I now a tune when I hear one. in an envelope. She had been at a loss to account for Ephie's sudden longing to hear DIE WALKURE. I'm sure of that. although he had done nothing of the ind. "I call it noise. I am not musical myself. together with the money. now it seemed as if no one had less need of pity or sympathy than she. and as Dove had done exactly the same. in more ways than one. Nothing bad will happen." said Johanna. and towards four o'cloc that afternoon.

felt aggrieved with Dove as well. Miss Ephie. from the bawling of the singers." "Ta e care. "Ephie has only herself to blame if she didn't enjoy it. After this last remar of Johanna's there was another lengthy pause. Dove might have let drop a hint of the nature of the piece Ephie wished to see. instead of being so ready to ta e tic ets for them. She loo ed at her in dismay. Joan. loo ing fondly at what he could see of Ephie's chee . and I shall go again. and to Johanna's amazed: "Ephie!" she retorted: "Yes. Mentally she put her sister's pettishness down to the noise and heat of the theatre. made Johanna see things differently." said Johanna. the first act treated of relations so infamous that. and implied a somewhat laming care of one's words in the days to come. than you. the best bits of pavement." himself meanwhile dancing from one side of the footpath to the other. as they advanced along the PROMENADE. "But I thin she is only tired--or a little cross. Dove had worried her right down the GRIMMAISCHESTRASSE. Then Dove. perverse child's attention to the crossings. but his silence was of a conciliatory ind." "Allow me." "Oh. and how he had offended her. but made no response. they are considered non-existent. bit her lip: he was at it again. in the mildly didactic manner she invariably used towards her sister. which would render it difficult ever again to be one's perfectly natural self. for such it undoubtedly was. She felt exasperated with every one. and. would have to vent her irritation somehow. the ruts in the road. "And if it was my fault you had to come--I've enjoyed myself very much. said: "I am afraid Miss Ephie has not enjoyed it either. for of nothing was Johanna more afraid than of losing the goodwill Ephie bore her. cold scrutinies in the past. who had been staring into the dar ness. I have eyes in my head as well as anyone else." said Ephie angrily. and from subsequent events. by common consent. she is so quiet--so unli e herself. to now what the matter was. "I can see for myself. But Ephie's fit of ill-temper." Dove hastened to interpose. he could not deny himself the pleasure of drawing the pretty. as far as she had been able to gather from his vague explanations.                                     . until the young girl was almost distracted. But I won't be teased--I won't indeed!" This was the sharpest answer Johanna had ever received from Ephie. with a: "Wal you here. Dove also made no further effort to converse connectedly. She had hitherto believed that Ephie--affectionate. and Johanna was of the opinion that. After the unfriendly way in which Maurice Guest had deserted her." Ephie. that is not li ely. Joan. and forced her into Dove's company. lazy little Ephie--accepted her individual peculiarities as an integral part of her nature: it had not occurred to her that Ephie might be standing aloof and considering her objectively--let alone mentally using such an un ind word as rudeness of her. and if he began his worryings again. and it was an additional reason for bearing Wagner and his music a grudge. she was bent on going." Johanna was more hurt by these words than she would have confessed. "I am not cross. you thin no one has a right to be rude but yourself. as often as I li e." she exclaimed at length. it hinted at unsuspected.

at least unloc your door. the soul of candour. it was with the utmost difficulty that the girl ept them bac . "Oh. and nodded in perfect contentment at the pretty little figure before her." Long?--on the contrary the hours had flown. Mrs. even when sobbing bitterly. one leading to the passage and one to her sister's room. she had vanished up the stairs long before Dove had finished saying good-night. nor was she troubled by Johanna's cold eye--that eye which told more plainly than words. she returned to the middle of the room without touching the door. But as soon as she heard that Johanna had gone. how her elder daughter regarded her self-indulgence. didn't want any supper. and at the house-door. might be contemplating on the other side. in the morning. with visions of the dar practices which Ephie. Johanna was at the latter. "Ephie! What is the matter? Why have you loc ed the door? Open it at once. left to herself." said Ephie crossly. Good night. undeterred by any sense of duty. mother. all right. I hope the evening wasn't too long. she should go to her mother's room. "Did you enjoy it." said Ephie bravely." "Yes. she hesitated whether or no." begged Johanna. she had a bad headache. In the corridor. child--you must be hungry. she would have heard the near tears in Ephie's voice. she sat down on a chair at the foot of the bed. for. "Here we are. and as loudly as she dared. "Let me give you a powder. but she was careful not to ma e a sound. and put out her hand to draw Ephie to her. mummy. she did not forget that                     ." she cried anxiously. was refused: "You had nothing but some tea." she added. I promise you. "Good night. darling? Were you amused? But you will tell me all about it in the morning. rolling one over another down her chee s. trying to open it. according to custom. "Well. and was very sleepy. too. But Ephie begged hard not to be bothered. She could forge ahead. Cayhill issed her. Propped up in bed on two pillows. as if not quite sure what was coming next." and when this. had all the comfortable sensations of a tippler in the company of his bottle. "I will not come in. and after standing undecided for a moment." urged her sister. And at last she was in her own room--at last! She hastily loc ed both doors. "You are so excited--I am sure you are not well. I am a little tired--but it was very sweet. And they have left our supper on the table. she had not to interrupt herself to laugh at Ephie's wit. abundantly. Cayhill. A moment later.Had Johanna not been so occupied with her own feelings. and suddenly began to cry." Mrs. Then she put a brave face on it. I insist upon it. she was not hungry. she now laid down her boo ." No. and only wanted to be quiet. The tears had been in waiting for so long that they flowed without effort. Ephie was free to go. and opened the door. for fear of disturbing the other inmates of the house.

at any moment Johanna might enter the adjoining room and overhear her. But now she wept in earnest. her wish might come true! Tired with crying. And having once yielded to the allurements of hope. The moon. a mere sharp line of silver. And then. and been easily fulfilled. All her desires had moved low. made a frame for the rounded oval of her face. quic ly. and almost cho ed her. what a fuss there would be! For Ephie was one of those fortunate people who always get what they want. of course. and instantly felt a throb of relief that she had not caught her first glimpse of it through glass. she reminded                                                   . turned her face this way and that. lighted two candles. with trembling fingers. the straight lashes so blac and so long!--she put her head bac . in one of them was a diminutive lace hand erchief. nine times running. the very next day. her growing consternation as the evening advanced. And the more she thought of it. and laid her head on the sill. tric led down and dropped with a splash. How had he had the heart to treat her so cruelly? She nelt down by the open window. and. with their slightly notched edges. In the next breath. near earth. and the street-lamps threw a flic ering mesh of light on the wall. In the glass that hung over the washstand. she even endeavoured to ma e the best of the past evening. she watching them. unexpected sob rose in her throat. By this uncertain light. The smile was still on her lips when the tears welled up again. She was still just as she had come out of the theatre: a many-coloured sil scarf was twisted round her head. she was pretty--oh. above the dar mass of houses opposite. She bowed her head to it. her two hands lay upturned on her nee. very. and peered at herself with a new curiosity. and the brilliant. wet though her chee s were. even smiling. Yes. loo ed at herself through half-closed lids. she began more and more to let her thoughts stray to the morrow. li e a polished scimitar. Again and again she as ed herself what she had done to be treated in this way. rolled to a ball. he had really had no chance of spea ing to her. her mortification at being slighted--a sensation which she experienced for the first time. she saw that it was new. her eyes were so bright. hung fine and slender. a still prettier was forthcoming. The windows of the room were still open. The evening had been one long tragedy of disappointment: her fevered anticipation beforehand. until a big. tired of the grief itself. did anything happen to cross wish or scheme of hers. ran over. with tight-closed eyes--and who new but what. one on each side of the mirror. the blinds undrawn. Good luc !--the fulfilment of one's wish! She wished in haste. and the stray tendrils of hair that escaped. behind closed doors. telling herself that she had not been alone for a single instant. half a dozen brains were at wor to thin out a compensation. dangling fringes. and sent up a prayer to the deity of fortune that had its home there. above all. her early throbs of excitement in the theatre. Did she brea her prettiest doll. very pretty! But it made what had happened all the harder to understand. What had happened to change him? She was sitting upright on her chair. she saw her dim reflection: following an impulse. with which now and then she dabbed away the hottest tears. and but rarely have occasion to cry. And then her s in was so fine. she dried her eyes. in order that she might see the even line of teeth. for she had received an injury which no one could ma e good. the more copiously her tears flowed. she leant forward with both hands on the stand. letting the tears stream unchec ed. Turning her hot face up to it.

herself that he might easily have made a chance. But she played with her unhappiness a little longer. and soon after this. he had made a profound impression on her: he loo ed so earnest and melancholy. and. he had beautiful hands. and the effect of a particular bow or ribbon. But in bed. She resolved to show him that she was not a person who could be treated in this off-hand fashion. She grew fastidious about her dress. for Schils y made it a point of honour to stare any pretty girl into confusion. Then. in which he saw no more of what or whom he loo ed at. Ephie had worshipped Schils y at a distance. but that he also too notice of her. and before she had finished plaiting her hair. which formed a wonderful chain of evidence. she developed a coquetry which made nothing seem                                     . he had a habit of falling into sheep-li e reveries. when the light was out. his auburn hair with the big hat set so jauntily on it. she shut the window. Events and details. suddenly grown rebellious. Ephie had blushed and writhed in blissful torture under these stonily staring eyes. She was very sleepy. very unhappy. the full morning sun was playing on the bed. which until now had weighed lightly on her. while on the days she had her violin-lessons. too. had he wished. and even had an idea of throwing herself on the bed without undressing. and when she wa ened next day. lighter than puff-balls. At this date. More than once. though. her breath came regularly--she was fast asleep. For several months prior to this. or the thrillingly impertinent way he had of staring at you--through half-closed eyes. Having come through a period of low spirits. and she did not now which she admired more. besides which. I shall not sleep a win . as he stood with his head bent to his violin. But before five minutes had passed her closed hand relaxed. than do the glassy eyes of the blind. and lay open and innocent on the coverlet. soft sheets was too strong to be withstood. She slipped out of her clothes. with his head well bac --in a manner at once daring and irresistible. caused by an acute consciousness of her own littleness and inferiority. so supremely indifferent to every one about him. that he was suffering from a romantic and melancholy attachment." she said to herself. studied before the glass which colours suited her best. leaving them just where they fell on the floor. and sighed at the prospect of the night-watch. she was stifling a hearty yawn. The very first time she saw him play. "I am very. were to her lin s of iron. toward nine o'cloc . she became an adept at inventing excuses to go to the Conservatorium when she thought he was li ely to be there. he should see that she was not to be trifled with. and deliberately singled her out with his gaze. The moon was visible for a time in the setting of the unshuttered window. she made the intoxicating discovery that not only did he return her loo . li e round pools. She went about nursing the idea that Schils y desired an introduction as much as she did. and a healthier feeling of resentment stole over her. Rising from her cramped position. which forbade him attempting to approach her. and the desire to be between the cool. she lay and stared before her. Ephie so far recovered her self-confidence that she was able to loo at her divinity when she met him. she shoo off Johanna's protectorship. From this to persuading herself that her feelings were returned was only a step. And the belief was pardonable on Ephie's part.

her long lashes covered her eyes. upper-lip trembled. wounded the nerves. and. His eyes strayed over her face. he would now from whom they came. with coloured streamers to them. with such effect that. her head drooped. In one of the junior masters' rooms. and ventured inside a florist's shop. and made her hands ache with applauding. the light was harsh and shadowless. he found himself listening to the discordant tones of a violin--at first unconsciously. uncertainly. Schils y could not refrain from rubbing his teeth together. and was the despair of Johanna. how wildly her heart was beating--it was as if one held a bird in one's hand. in extreme ill-humour. he stealthily opened the door. as we listen when our thoughts are elsewhere engaged. many-windowed corridors of the Conservatorium. had he not caught it. but--but . Afterwards she lay wa eful. and Schils y lounged and swore. In the whitewashed. such as the singers in the opera received on a gala night. with shrill feebleness. When Schils y played at an ABENDUNTERHALTUNG. held them firm. from his superior height--he was head and shoulders taller than Ephie --loo ed down on the miscreant. But on the only occasion she tried to carry out the scheme. leaving the shopman staring after her in surprise. with an impotence that struc him as purely vicious. dimpled nec . some one had begun to play scales in the third position. and his sul iest expression. then more and more intently. see ing out each note. with his two hands deep in his poc ets. now that the miserable little tones had successfully penetrated his ear. and found an outlet for his irritation in repeating these words aloud. and new that the latter had not yet come upstairs. and the excessive circumstantiality of the matter. with hot chee s. she sat in the front row of seats. It was two o'cloc on a cloudless afternoon. made her feel so uncomfortable that she had fled precipitately. and was so engrossed in playing that she did not hear him enter. He too both her wrists in his. they hit him li e so many blows. he proposed to himself the schoolboy pleasure of creeping up behind her and giving her a well-deserved fright. her violin would have fallen to the floor. Then. On seeing this. He had been forced to ma e an appointment with a man to whom he owed money. . and saw from the uneasy movement of her breast. and dreamt extravagant dreams of sending him great bas ets and bouquets of flowers. "Damn him for a fool!" he said savagely to himself. he could endure the torment no longer. however. He did so. He had seen in the BUREAU the particular master. which seemed uncertain whether to laugh or to cry--the short. she had crimsoned down to her bare. and he felt himself growing as soft as butter. who was hanging about the top storey of the building. . He felt from her wrists. Besides. And though no name was given. and screwing up his face as though he had toothache. one day late in May. none of                                               . it jarred on one. her scant command of German. A girl was standing with her bac to him. Things were at this pass when. His ferocity died away. So at least thought Schils y. Ephie went as usual to ta e her lesson. only to produce it falsely. that she was as astoundingly pretty as this. Going to the room from which the sounds issued. pic ing out all its beauties. he had had no notion. As this scraping wor ed on him. as an ETUDE was commenced. and so warm that the budding lilac in squares and gardens began to give out fragrance.good enough to wear. and a tremulous smile touched the corners of her mouth. But gradually. well. the latter had not yet appeared. He recognised her now as a pretty little American whom he had noticed from time to time about the building.

She heard the cry she had given. and felt his hands--the hands she had so often admired--clasp her wrists. Herr Bec er stood at the window and shoo his head: round this innocent baby face he had woven several pretty fancies. he stooped and issed her on the mouth. and called her a "dear old darling Joan." said Ephie. Ephie burrowed more deeply in her pillow. after ta ing off her shoes for her. was conscious of the difficulties of C sharp minor. held her ears more tightly to. with a pause between each iss. the dust that lay white on the lid on the piano. It was li e a fairy-story.the hard words he had had ready crossed his lips. his manner to her was so cold and short that Ephie played worse than ever before. he swung hastily from the room. Just let me be. Herr Bec er loo ed suspiciously at his favourite pupil's tell-tale face and air of extreme confusion. finding her thus. and his voice was not the less caressing because a little thic . holding her unfailing remedy. he let one of her hands fall. which Herr Bec er hung up for her. She felt. and was just in time to avoid the master. Then. "Oh. after having playfully examined it. throughout the lesson. as long as she lived. however. and aware that she had been cross. After stic ing fast in the middle of a passage. and. leave me alone. entered the class-room. too. felt sure the sun had been too hot for her. laughed a happy. flung herself on the bed. as suddenly as though he had sprung from the earth. to shut out the world. and putting both hands to her cars. hugged her. She insisted upon Ephie lying still and trying to sleep. a short time after. and too off her hat. and some one else was playing. She even new the very note at which HE had been beside her--without a word of warning. and ta ing her by the chin. "I don't want your powders. was alarmed. and begged to be allowed to go home. gurgling laugh that almost cho ed her: never. went over the details of what had happened. a soothing powder for the nerves. and. all he said. three times. She had just ta en her violin from its case. turned her face up to his. do for goodness' sa e. Upon which. and new the exact shape of the diamond ring he wore on his little finger. and finally stood over the bed. against whom he brushed up in going out of the door." She dran the mixture. She wal ed lazily down the sunny corridor. bidding her practise her scales during his absence." But there was something in the stormy tenderness of the embrace. And then--then--she burrowed more firmly. He was so close to her that she felt his breath. Joan. she threw her arms round her sister. and having reached her room unseen. but only grew more and more confused. and buried her burning chee s in the white coolness of the pillows. she went on tiptoe out of the room. and in his gentlest voice. and noiselessly drawing down the blinds. and catching sight of Johanna's anxious face. and went out of the room. rather than saw the audacious admiration of his eyes. I am all right. Johanna. she heard again and smiled at the funny accent with which he said: "Just a moment. would she forget the feel of                                                       . when he remembered something he had to do in the BUREAU. as she neither answered him nor loo ed up. was: "Have I frightened you?" He was desperately curious to now the colour of her eyes. at a noise in the corridor. Meanwhile Ephie flew rather than wal ed home." She saw the bare walls of the room. and. She was forced to loo at him for a moment. put questions of various inds. in the flushed chee s and glittering eyes that made Johanna even more uneasy. she stopped altogether. When she had gone.

partly because her fancy pictured him lying in wait li e an ogre to eat her up. and they met face to face. but pleased. And both on that day and the next. Not only this. and began to frequent the Conservatorium assiduously. But if. whenever she went into the street. and stared hard at her as she passed. with the tossed head and baby mouth. She went down the street with her head in the air. gazed fixedly at some distant object. on the ground of headache. and clattering gracefully on two high-heeled. Ephie played truant. when he admired a well-turned an le or a pretty petticoat. at the corner of the street. she saw him again. an unfailing instinct guided her aright. she blamed herself for not having given him an opportunity to spea to her. She was quieter than usual. each time the door-bell rang. When. after ten long days. put countless questions to herself. But after a wee had dragged itself to an end. She waited confidently for something to happen: she did not herself now what it would be. loo ed after her. but. and partly from a poor little foolish fear lest he should thin her too easily won. she grew restless and unsure. and answer. and she had not even seen Schils y again. and sometimes at night. when Johanna thought she was asleep. however. he could not have told why. in the street that ran alongside the Gewandhaus. but vanity forbade him to wear glasses--and when. he turned and followed her out. He screwed up his eyes against the sun. holding her dress very high to display a lace-befrilled petticoat. and was altogether as haughty as her parted lips would allow of. from which she wa ened with a start. pointed shoes. as she was leaving the building. And she played her part so well that Schils y's attention was arrested. Ephie tossed her head. you dear old bumble-bee!" From the lesson following the eventful one. "VERDAMMT!" he said with expression. he                                   . she would stand at her window. It was in the vestibule. but a ind of subdued radiance peeped through and shone in her eyes. and her movements were a little languid. he was reminded of the provo ing little American. Ephie rather spoilt the effect of her behaviour by throwing a hasty glance bac . for the child would pass from bursts of rather forced gaiety to fits of real fretfulness. too. And Johanna was again beset by the fear that Ephie was sic ening for an illness. he remembered who she was. Now. it seemed extraordinary that there should be no outward difference in her. Directly she espied him. with a hug: "Wool-gathering. A few days later. in order to see her better--he was short-sighted. all of which began with why and how. it was beyond belief that things could jog on in their old familiar course. and so she waited and expected--at every letter the postman brought. on some such occasion. Ephie?" she would only laugh.his moustache as it scratched her lips! When she rose and loo ed at herself in the glass. he laughed and clic ed his tongue against the roof of his mouth. with a very different face from that which she wore by day. Johanna said to her: "Where ARE your thoughts. after the miracle that had occurred. and for several days she did not lose this sensation of being mysteriously changed. and standing on the steps. and. though her heart thumped alarmingly. or sin into brown studies.

too. was none the less. Ephie. she found her tongue. he was at her side. she had never been so tongue-tied as to-day. she bowed ever so slightly. her laugh ended. It was not in him to let this pass unnoticed. she said: "That depends on how you behave in future. and meanwhile he went on: "The punishment would be too hard. The temptation was so great."                                 . made her feel very uncomfortable. she said: "Why. just when she felt she ought to say something very cold and decisive. "Such a little crime! Is there no hope for me?" She attempted to be dignified. In spite of her trouble. about to pass as before--even more frigidly. Shooting a quic glance at him. and once more the young man was not sure whether the trembling of her lip signified tears or laughter. had upbraided herself incessantly. he turned. in order not to appear childish. and this. Ephie had impulsively stopped on hearing him come up with her. now the moment had come. and dug with her shoe again. "Are you always so cruel?" he as ed. she could not resist giving a furtive loo behind her. and he saw it. but there was a distressing pause before he added: "And sorry to see you are still angry with me. but her voice quavered. It seemed a long time before he said with emphasis: "That is the last thing in the world you should as of me. If you promise never to----" Before the words were well out of her mouth. and. and at precisely the same moment. and she grew redder than before. She. But not an idea presented itself. but at a passer-by on the opposite side of the street. and loo ed at her not quite sure how to begin. too. Loo ing. tried to dig a hole in the pavement with the toe of her shoe. as he waited for her to spea . together with the effect produced on her by his peculiar lisp. although she immediately laid the bac of her hand on her lips." he said in excellent English. she was aware of her stupidity. He too off his hat again. with a tentative smile. I guess I have a right to be. with an intentness that made her eyes see the ground again. But this time Schils y raised his hat. too. quite fran ly. and he continued to smile at the confusion she had fallen into. "I am happy to see you have not forgotten me." Ephie drooped her head. and now. Schils y had laughed. With a few quic steps. Ephic found the coincidence droll. in the interval. colouring deeply. She was painfully conscious of his insistent eyes on her face. not at him. she tittered." She tried to spea severely. "Little! I am really not accustomed----" "Then I'm not to be forgiven?" His tone was so humble that suddenly she had to laugh. who." At this. could not thin what to say. When he was safely past.saw her again.

you now my name." she said. to a crimson silence. you have the advantage of me. invariably began in her archest manner. But. and either stood tal ing to her. and giving him a loo of surprise and resentment. she came upon him at a different hour. He was strolling up and down in front of the Conservatorium. . she had detailed to him the days and hours of her lessons at the Conservatorium. "No. after much seeming reluctance on her part. As before. and had finally made an excuse to go out: her steps naturally carried her to the Conservatorium. he did not need to fear being seen by acquaintances. "At least give me your hand. always. who had rapidly recovered her assurance. But this was more than Schils y could bear. When she caught sight of him. Ephie drew bac her extended hand." Mortally offended by his manner. But one day. he would not let her go." he said. meanwhile eeping a watchful eye on the inner staircase--visible through the glass doors--down which Louise would come. But she drew bac angrily. or wal ed the length of the street beside her. her eyes brightened. he put out his hand to stop her. "I shall leave you to find it out for yourself. little by little. who might appear at any moment. how dare you! Ta e your hand away at once. Ephie had been restless all the morning. and his efforts to pronounce it afforded Ephie much amusement. For the first time.--But listen. on the chance of seeing Schils y. "I haven't a moment to spare. as on the former occasion. and where he would be li ely to meet her. he told her that he had found out what her name was." he said. she greeted him with an inviting smile. "Mr. Ephie whis ed along in a great hurry. with one eye on the door. But Schils y did not ta e up her tone. and it became his special pleasure to reduce her. At the early hour of the afternoon when Ephie had her lessons. though. about a fortnight later. hoping that she would turn at the corner. . "What are you doing here to-day?" he as ed with a frown of displeasure. The second time they met. he too her by the chin and turned her face up to his. the sunshine was undisturbed in the quiet street. and folded his hands in moc supplication.As she was still obstinately silent. Schils yl . half banter. where she proposed to study the notice-board. half earnest. On after occasions. he cut her words short. Their conversation was always of the same nature. and then. he waylaid her as she came and went." They both laughed. and a saucy remar . she found herself able to loo straight at him. it will give you something to do." "There!--I have sinned again. "Now I am afraid you will never forgive me. waiting for Louise. with a touch of her usual lightness. was about to pass him by without a further word. he stooped and peeped under the overhanging brim of her hat. Ephie regained some of her native self-composure. Will you not tell me yours?" Having retreated a full yard from him. and when he held it in his. he stood and watched her go down the street. until. on this day.                                         . when he was not expecting to see her. "Such pretty lips!" he said. Ephie.

I wasn't expecting to see you to-day--you now that. little girl. Dove had tal ed enthusiastically of an opera-performance. He went down the steps. the more were her resentful feelings swallowed up by the wish to see him. Even Maurice was bad enough--what concern of his was it how she enjoyed herself? When. she was resolved never to spea to Schils y again. Ephie grew flustered." she said in a small." He laughed rudely. he was with some one else. thin of something--quic !" he said. But from the moment they entered the FOYER. if she were not mista en. at the last moment. Schils y hardly heard her. she concocted a scheme to escape Johanna's surveillance. which had just been sent home: a light. she did discover the person she sought. "It's not my fault--upon my word it isn't. finally. and loosened his hold of her arm. was to ta e place the following night. Her fingers trembled with impatience as she fastened on a pretty new dress. Ephie's heart began to sin : the crowd was great. Ephie went home in a state of anger and humiliation which was new to her. on the previous Sunday. little girl. "Oh well. She counted off the hours till the opera commenced. Loo here. Surely she might ris mentioning this. you now. and made   "I am going to the opera to-morrow night. and too no notice of her words. and though she rac ed her brains. she could not see Schils y. she made up her mind that he should atone for his behaviour to the last iota: he should grovel before her. he frowned." she said. she would scarcely deign to loo at him. "Come. mee voice. For the first few hours. He was on tenterhoo s to be gone. "We are always at home then." he begged impatiently. AUF WIEDERSEHEN!"                                                         . But the nearer the time came for their meeting. could ma e no further suggestion. without even raising his hat." he said crossly. as if he had come from the other end of the street. and showed it. and did not see her. which. and when Louise came out. and was on the verge of tears. shoo his head. he was sauntering towards the building again. answer me. don't be angry. When this mood passed." Ephie melted. who was not to be sha en off. with narrow bands of blac velvet artfully applied so as to throw the fairness of her hair and s in into relief. if you can't. if it should be necessary. Louise had appeared at the head of the stairs."Now. "The very thing. "Come and visit us on Sunday afternoon." he said. Dove had declared that all musical Leipzig would probably be present in the theatre. Good-bye. Then. of how she had once been introduced to Schils y. tell me--this sort of thing is so unsatisfactory--is there no other place I could see you? What do you do with yourself all day? Come. flowered stuff. and in his place came Dove. The consciousness of loo ing her best gave her manner a light sureness that was very charming. she remembered how. "I shall loo out for you there. and when she had succeeded in ma ing him loo . without fear of another snub. don't be cross. she had a story ready. she had a flash of inspiration.

When they had twice gone past in this way. an old. the nearer Schils y drew. at the end of the FOYER. with a benevolent face. and she had each time vainly put herself forward. and directly brea fast was over. which made it hard for him placidly to accept the fit of pettish silence. what was worse. wished in English to now what he could do for her. or would he not? The side curtains had hardly swept down before she was up from her seat. Would it never end? How long would the fat. each of whom was bent over a high des . and coming to the counter. The senior. What did it mean? All through the tedious second act. to smile at him and coquet with him. Schils y? Is it very important?" he said with a leer. put on her hat and slipped out of the house." In this letter. but after she had stood hesitating for some minutes. and Dove went into a seventh heaven. to a remar the girl in white made. ugly Brunnhilde stand tal ing to Siegmund and the woman who lay so ungracefully between his nees? As if it mattered a straw what these sham people did or felt! Would he spea to her in the next interval. Schils y. and in and out of her fingers. he answered by an angry flap of the hand. white-haired man. Ephie wound her hand erchief round and round. did she remember that she was ignorant of his address. and. Ephie began to ta e an interest in what Dove was saying. did not loo up. an under-secretary solemnly laid down his pen. and the more openly. Ephie wrote on her scented pin paper a short letter. and disconcerted her by staring at her over his spectacles. Schils y lived. Before leaving her bedroom the following morning. It was the first time Ephie had had occasion to enter the BUREAU of the Conservatorium. afterwards going downstairs with the sallow girl in white. and. Other people grew attentive. . Her one consolation was that obviously he was not enjoying himself. that she too not the slightest notice of Ephie. "Mr. thin ing hard. was not spea ing. but he had no more attention to spare for her than before. This time she chose to stand against the wall. and she was alone in the presence of the secretaries. . Euphemia Sto es Cayhill. he did not even loo in her direction. XI. Growing very red. he wore a surly face. The crowning touch was put to this disastrous evening by the fact that Schils y's companion of the FOYER wal ed the greater part of the way home with them." Herr Kleefeld leaned both hands on the counter.angry signs that she was not to spea to him. hurrying Johanna away. he came in sight. and. she "failed to understand" his conduct of the previous evening." and ended with: "Your sincere friend. . . as if he                                                   . Ephie as ed him if he "would . which began: "Dear Mr. she subsequently fell into. her courage almost failed her. could . when the heavy door had swung to behind her. and as ed him for an explanation. Not until she had closed the envelope. After a short time. She bit the end of her pen. would please tell her where Mr. writing in a ledger.

and she felt she could not begin to practise till it was refilled. She made her escape. and only when she reached him. with a decisive movement. she entered a confectioner's and bought a pound of chocolate creams. he made a barrier of his arms. too the young girl's arm." ran up the steps. He nodded his head. yes. he saw that she was going to cry." "Why. and wal ed her off at a bris pace to the woods. li e a china Mandarin. he loo ed eenly at her. Is there anything to pay?" stammered Ephie. she dressed herself with care and went as usual. As she refused to notice it. and at the sight of him. On the third fell a lesson. which she was resolved not to ta e. and obliged her to study an hour overtime to atone for her escapade. Schils y--let me see. after the uncertainty she had gone through during the past wee . faint protests. "Why. standing near the portico of the Conservatorium. But when the hour came. and she was regularly the first to loo through the mails as they lay on the lobby table. Holding her thus. the same thing was repeated." After a pause. he stood and watched her approach. Schils y--let me see. But he replied: "You and I have                                                           . anxious and angry at her leaving the house without a word. But Herr Kleefeld. Mr. garden flower. I have to as him about some music. which confused Ephie still more. afraid of the threatening scene. He came bac without it. I than you very much. more to himself than to her. Schils y was nowhere to be seen. on which he had painsta ingly copied the address: "TALSTRASSE. in spite of the obdurate way in which she ept her eyes turned from him. still wagging. leaning as before on the counter. and forced her to stand still. But Johanna was very cantan erous. She remained standing at the window until she had seen him come up the street. Having addressed the letter in the nearest post office. and. repeating aloud as he did so. in a big white hat. and left him there. if she did not see him this time. But her spirits were low. he too her violin-case out of her hand. and throwing a swift glance round him. Half a wee later. and went to the extreme edge of the pavement to avoid it. indolently held out his hand. to her extreme embarrassment: "Mr. He did not come to meet her. Ephie made an ineffectual effort to get possession of it again. and saying: "Wait a minute. and ran his finger down a page. but he held it above her reach. which heightened the colour of her chee s. Two days brought no reply to her letter. indeed." replied Ephie timidly. with a waggish air. round the brim of which lay scarlet poppies. when all the feeling she seemed capable of concentrated itself on the visits of the postman. then. and a dress of a light blue. shoo his head from side to side. made them bluer than a fjord in the sun. she could hardly eep bac her tears. so that when Johanna met her in the passage. she made herself prettier than ever: she was li e some gay. 12 III. opened another ledger. Then followed for Ephie several unhappy days. he handed her a slip of paper.were ma ing a jo e. For a moment he hesitated. reflected in her eyes. went bac to his des . except that on this day. with his hand on her elbow. she was able to assert that her candy-box had been empty. despair would crush her. and. But she did--saw him while she was still some distance off. She made a few.

and. and even Maurice Guest was made to act as dummy: he had ta en her for a wal . It was now her turn to be curious. it would not do for them to be seen together: it might injure his prospects. he saw her small.something to say to each other. a good friend of his. no! She's quite old. and. She was alone. which was screened by a ind of boscage. he found himself saying. the lashes loo ed jet-blac on her chee s. determined not to let the little affair. and to avoid the necessity of more. she suddenly loo ed up in his face. she gained a good deal of freedom. "Of course I do. Ephie loo ed grave for a moment. said: "Then you do care for me a little?" It would have need a stronger than he to answer otherwise. and the sobbed confessions that slipped out unawares. But she made him wince by responding with perfect candour: "With her? Oh. be harmful to his future. before Schils y sauntered in. he as ed her if she had minded very much seeing him with some one else. He had come to meet her with many good resolutions. made it hard for him to be wise. dried her tears with his own hand erchief. and wal ed quic ly. as well as the baby crease that mar ed the wrist. and for prolonged absences. issed the hand he held. and. he issed the pin dimples at the base of her four fingers. she waited in a quiet corner of the vestibule for nearly a quarter of an hour. But she repeated the question. a beginning once made. to whom he owed much. The poppy-strewn hat lay on the seat beside them. long time. in the mellow light of the trees. confiding movement. in happy relief. that they must be very cautious. they saw each other as often as was feasible. the fluffy head and full white throat were bare. even teeth: and he was so unnerved by the nearness of all this fresh young beauty that. little girl. On reaching the Conservatorium. casting shy glances from side to side. whom she had never nown to tell a lie. He put his arm round her. And when he had in this way petted her bac to composure. and whom he could under no circumstances offend. with a pretty. and also by occasionally shir ing a lesson. and here they had remained. and released her violin from the eeping of the janitor. at each word. Johanna would as soon have thought of herself being untruthful as of doubting Ephie. or they had been together to see Madeleine Wade. in place of what he had intended. and one of the first questions she put related to the dar girl he had been with at the theatre. and he was obliged to reply: that would be a different matter. and he had not been able to console her. Ephie grew wonderfully apt at excuses for going out at odd times." A full hour had elapsed when Ephie appeared again. Ephie had cried heartily. In the meantime. At first. so lightly begun. and if she did sometimes feel jealous of all the new claims made                                                                 . when Ephie with her accustomed fran ness had told him everything he cared to now. and the tale they told. but afterwards?" she as ed him promptly." was easily said. Sound fictions were needed to satisfy Johanna. some one he had nown for a long. lead to serious issues. Playing lightly with her fingers. and by these means. Schils y told her that this was one of his best friends. "Yes." Before parting. but Ephie's tears. Schils y new of a secluded seat. He issed her chee . in the desire of provo ing a pretty confession. They had not gone far into the wood. they arranged the date of the next meeting.

comparing her. as she swept along. with descriptions in the newspapers. jer ed far away from Miss Jensen's theories. or richer in those trifling inspirations for brightening life. Maurice caught a glimpse of two people who were going in the opposite direction. and they drew respectfully bac to let her pass. down a side-wal --a passing but vivid glimpse of a light. As they reached the bend of a path. slightly ahead of her companions. Fauvre. as it were. his head bared beneath the overhanging branches. and listened to her words absent-mindedly. when his attention was arrested. in a thic ly grown arbour which he entered to drin a glass of beer. Miss Jensen. the end being the man-child. and each roll came nearer. Ephie went over in memory all that had ta en place at their last meeting. was an earnest wor er for woman's emancipation. and towards six o'cloc . a sound of voices came to them through the trees. top-heavy castles for the future. had long since arranged just how this matter was to fall out. She sat proud and conspicuous in the front row.on her little sister's attention. such a feeling was only temporary. they would live--and get her clothes ready. in the effusively hearty manner with which she. there was a universal sigh of relief. ta ing coffee. She was just asserting that the ordinary German woman was little more than means to an end. It did not once cross her mind to doubt the issue: she had always had her way. and. and singing scraps of melodies to himself in his deep baritone. in her own room. Fauvre dragging behind. and then he would come. in an instant. and on turning a corner. in a very becoming dress. the thunder rumbled. she swept into the little room behind the platform. and her mother and sister had never found her more charming and lovable. the storm finally burst. and she was. She was absurdly happy. Miss Jensen. outstretched hand. and he would play at concerts--as she had once heard Sarasate play in New Yor --and every one would stand on tiptoe to see him. hitting indolently at stones and shrubs. or built high. At night.                                               . the three wal ed bac through the woods together. a sudden wind rose and swept the dust house-high through the streets. and the only shadow on her happiness was that she could not do this immediately. after a prolonged period of expectation. as. spo e with a thought-deadening eloquence. As soon as the rain ceased. which. to a ship in full sail. and they would be married--a big wedding. which were still weighed down by their burden of drops. he found Philadelphia Jensen and the pale little American. One day at this time there was a violent thunderstorm. The lady welcomed him with a large. She would return to America--where. She loo ed forward with secret triumph to the day when she would be able to announce her engagement to the celebrated young violinist. who had once been a journalist. lying wa eful with hot chee s and big eyes. which she alone was permitted to enter. in her own mind. and wal ed at a bris pace to Connewitz. had been ominously gathering. "His wife. carrying her hat in her hand. and. too possession of people. the eastern s y grew blac with clouds. That is his wife!" people whispered. The afternoon was damply refreshing. Maurice had never been called on to thin about the matter. which happiness brings with it. for hours. content to see Ephie content. They would have a big house. When. At the WALDCAFE on the ban of the river. for the most part. Maurice shut his piano. and having now successfully mounted her hobby. of course. Towards midday. resolute of bust as of voice.

Cayhill. so confidentially? At the name that rose to his lips. but continued to rattle on. at the same time drawing her little daughter to her. were both too engrossed to notice it. "But mummy. But Maurice had first to lay two of his fingers on                                                       . I saw?" but again she did not give him time. determined to ascertain whether it had really been Ephie he had seen. it was on Maurice's tongue to say: "Then it was you. "Then you had a pleasant wal ?" as ed Johanna in a preoccupied fashion. my pet?" "Yes." said Johanna.flowered dress. "Well. Ephie had only just got home in time. she did not now why. But Johanna frowned. perhaps to-day it was a little too far. and. Cayhill and Johanna were in the sitting-room. First. of a grey suit of clothes. commenced tal ing about the weather. answered: "How could it be anything but sweet--after the rain?" In the face of this fran ness. Ephie! He could have sworn to voice and dress. she continued: "We wal ed right to Connewitz and bac without a rest. and instead. Yes indeed. quic ening his steps." She turned bac the loose sleeve of her blouse. His consternation at the discovery was such that he changed colour. And loo at my muscle. she invited one after another to test its firmness. Schils y. "She has never been used to wal ing and is easily tired--aren't you. Mrs. Gradually it bro e upon Maurice that Ephie had been ma ing use of his name. They had this moment risen from the supper-table. After parting from his companions. he incited Miss Jensen to tal on. Ephie. however. wasn't it? Who was the lady? Did you perceive?" So there was no possible doubt of it. Before anything further could be said. Ephie grew scarlet. to iss her. The others. and then she can't get up the next morning. but the next moment he was afraid lest his companions should also have seen who it was. Johanna loo ed very surprised to see him." "I don't thin you should ta e her so far. I declare!" laughed Mrs. and before Maurice could spea . she told him. her eyes fixed on the young man's face with a curious intentness. and auburn hair. folding it sharply to her. Why. Ephie herself came into the room. he almost stopped short. Still standing behind Johanna's chair. fondling her sister's nec . but to whom in all the world was she tal ing. mildly dogmatic. Herr Bec er is always telling me how full my tone is getting. that lady said in a surprised tone: "Say." said Mrs. that was Mr. her face was flushed. there was something in the childish action that offended the elder sister. considering the following sentence of her letter. he did an errand in the town. She hardly greeted him. however. Cayhill. I won't have you say I'm not strong. and she did not seem well-pleased at his unexpected visit. loo ing up from her boo with her indly smile. "Quite a prize-fighter. what the meaning of it was. baring almost the whole of her rounded arm. and told Ephie to put down her sleeve at once. covering his silence. then. and if so. and from there went to the Cayhills' PENSION. without loo ing up from the letter she was writing." she admitted.

he began to suspect that she had purposely avoided him. "What is it all about. that he had advised her to give up harmony altogether: she would never ma e anything of it. On the top of this. Morry. then. The                                               . she caught at his hand. And yet what could he have done? He did not now see Ephie as often as formerly. you silly! It's nothing. because--why. But his distress at her s ill in deceit was so great that he said: "Ephie. and then to help her to button the cuff. thoughtless child. Besides. he too his leave. which had previously brought them together. as if nature had intended him to stand in the place of a brother to this pretty. that is--he believed her. The exercises in harmony. she had lied so artlessly to the others. because one of the girls in my class as ed me to go to the CAFE FRANCAIS with her. and an impulse rose in her to throw her arms round his nec and say: "Yes. In the light of what had come to pass. too? She was less li ely to be considerate of him than of Johanna. He puzzled his brains to imagine how she had learned to now Schils y in the first instance. had been discontinued. Ephie?" he as ed. yes. "Then it WAS you. "Morry.the soft s in. just as he might have done had he heard that she was stric en down by a mortal illness. he were to blame for what had happened." she whispered. at the same time. He had heard her voice in the wood too distinctly to allow of any mista e. I saw. and Joan doesn't li e it. she had lied then as now. her own charming. she had said that her teacher was satisfied with what she herself could do. and when the affair had begun: what he had overheard that afternoon implied an advanced stage of intimacy. and. on loo ing bac . felt somewhat defiantly inclined towards Maurice." and she laughed again. and she was still wearing the same dress. and he revolved measures by means of which a stop might be put to it. Then. in some way. By the light that came from the stairs as she opened the hall-door. and ate too much ice-cream. he felt as if. soon after this. Ephie went out of the room with him. Oh. I am so happy!" But she remembered the reasons for secrecy that had been imposed on her. "You saw me?" He nodded. little Ephie!" aloud to himself. and hardly ever alone. it was me. In the dar passage. and added pettishly: "Why ever did you just come to-night?" He tried to see her face. After all. the evidence of his senses reasserted itself. Morry. First. and I new she would be cross--that's all! Don't loo so glum. and we stayed too long. and he new that what she had told him was false. you mustn't tell tales on me. I told them I had been with you. came less selfish feelings. with assumed merriment. "In the wood?--you old goose! Listen. What was almost a sense of guilt too possession of him. she noticed that he loo ed troubled. As long as this laugh rang in his ears--to the bottom of the street. what business was it of his? Why should he ta e her to tas for what she chose to do? And so she merely laughed. Maurice saw that he had let himself be duped by her. assuaging laugh. When. in the NONNE--by the weir?" "Me? In the NONNE!" She was genuinely surprised. however. without a tremor of her candid eyes--why should she not lie to him.

"Something has bothered you. he alone would be to blame for it. and cold sausage. Maurice turned on his heel and went to see Madeleine. Did Louise now or suspect anything? Had she. In the end. the little flame sprang into life. But where his mind baul ed. Thus he fretted. it was nothing of that sort. and laughed at the idea of the responsibility lying heavy on her. Through the open                                       . as guide and travelling-companion to a party of Englishwomen. she was engaged to go to Norway. in the coming holidays. So I at once bought this boo . and she had tal ed informingly for a time of Norway. who sat irresponsive and preoccupied. the furniture of the room lost its form. If it had only not been Schils y who was concerned! Some of the ugly stories he had heard related of the young man rose up and too vivid shape before his eyes. and was glad that she happened to be late. But Madeleine persisted: could she be of any help to him? "The merest trifle--not worth tal ing about. and when she heard that he had not eaten. and refused to wor . not Johanna. But though she herself had suggested it." she said. at a distance. "with definite arrangements. its people and customs. But when they had finished their supper.only course he could thin of was to lay the matter before Johanna. "I had a letter from London to-day. himself impossible. had he not ta en both her hands. and. at the crossing where the MOZARTSTRASSE joined the PROMENADE. he might do more good by watching over her silently. Has your wor gone badly?" No. he had once more allowed himself to be hoodwin ed and put off. A lamp-lighter was beginning his rounds. and insisted on her confessing to him? No. and yet what would the use of that be? Ephie would deny everything. in Heaven's name. credulous as usual. which she conned as she ate. I intend to try and master at least the rudiments of the language--barbarous though it is--for I want to get some good from the journey. And if one has one's wits about one. If any harm came to Ephie. with a mild explosion. Why. "Is anything the matter to-night? Or are you only tired?" He was tired. she was not satisfied with his answer. he came up with his long pole to the lamp at the corner. and stood about in shapeless masses. was when he tried to understand what all this might mean to the third person involved. bread. and considered him attentively. without arriving at any clearer conclusion than this: that he had unwittingly been made accessory to an unpleasant secret." The twilight had grown thic around them. for." She traced on a map with her forefinger the route they proposed to follow. and never forgive him into the bargain. for wee s past been suffering under the nowledge? He stood irresolute. Propped open on the table was a Danish Grammar. she loo ed at the young man. as they stood in the passage. much can be learnt from cab-drivers and railway-porters. only he new the frivolous temptations the young girl was exposed to. perhaps. The latter was ma ing her supper of tea. she set a cup and plate before him. ma e his story ludicrous.

Let other people loo after themselves. and close at hand. "I mean a man. when suddenly. but there's something I should li e to say to you. It was sultry again. If you want to get on in life. you must thin more about yourself than you do. and feel their sufferings through yourself."                             ." He did not reply. Maurice. I daresay. "But you are smiling inwardly. "Clear-headed. He had been for a quic . Madeleine. with a grating noise.window was heard the whistle of a distant train. an occasion offered when. she said. and who. it's harder to pass the maimed and crippled by. are bored to desperation." Here she laughed at her own seriousness. he might have acted upon Madeleine's introductory advice. along one of the paths of the wood." "If I had a sister." Only a very few days later. than it is to be a person of unlimited sympathies. You are far too soft-hearted. Some one older than yourself. and a silence fell." said Madeleine. Come. and who has had experience. I'm a veritable egoist. and thin ing: the real old school-marm!" "You don't practise what you preach. and the strong. and tell me what plans you have for the holidays. he heard the sound of voices. and helpful to a fellow." It was his turn to smile. "Loo here. wa e up. just as there are people who have no talent for ma ing a home home-li e. went on sounding and resounding. "I now you better than you now yourself. I should li e her to be li e you. than to stop and weep over them." "I suppose men always will continue to consider that the greatest compliment they can pay. the moment they are alone with their thoughts. solitary wal . remained grave. watching her busy with the lamp. "I must light the lamp. are certainly the selfish. and pushed bac her chair. Besides." Madeleine said." said Maurice. a large fly that had been disturbed buzzed distractingly. within limits. after the rain. But when he rose to go. and turned up the light so high that they both blin ed. "I don't want to be officious. Sitting in the dar ma es for foolishness. with profit to himself. undecided where to re-settle for the night. The battle is to the strong. with an impulsiveness that was foreign to her: "I wish you had a friend. It's this. It's harder. and are only happy when they are out of it. At heart. The best-meaning woman in the world doesn't count. you now. He stopped                   She contradicted him. But YOU have really something in you to occupy yourself with. in the evening between nine and ten o'cloc . who was sitting with crossed arms. until they had no more li eness to themselves. try not to mind how foolish they are--you can't improve them. when she had observed him for some time in silence. and was returning. You're not one of those people--I won't mention names!--whose own emptiness forces them to ta e an intense interest in the doings of others. you're mista en. in which the commonplace words she had last said.--And then she scolded the young man soundly for his intention of remaining in Leipzig during the holidays. "Have you had enough of me?" Madeleine. Madeleine rose.

as if reiterating things worn threadbare by repetition. with the return of daylight. it seemed to be accusing. But now. Even his busiest hours were set to them--"You have never given me a moment's happiness"--and they were ali e a torture and a joy. Maurice heard her say: "You have never given me a moment's happiness. His first conscious thought was that this wind meant rain . he had drawn the foolish inference that she wished to avoid him. Abnormally sensitive. it died away in the surrounding silence. and. in which he told her this and more. holding on to a slender tree that grew close by the path. as plainly as if the words were being carved in stone before his eyes. hindered him from appreciating a beautiful but immaterial thing at its true worth. that betrayed feeling with as little reserve as the cry of an animal. Since the evening they had wal ed home from the theatre together. And. What she said was inaudible to him. and already said too often. li e a Hebrew prayer. But he could not forget the words he had heard her say. . but a casual. and then. There was no response but a gentle rustling of the leaves overhead. which might have related to the weather. a nod and a smile. or to the time of night. . but it was enough to be able to listen. It seemed unnatural that he was debarred from giving her just a fraction of the happiness she craved--he. as Madeleine had foretold of her. . and he came bac to himself to find that he was standing rigid. it elicited a reply.instantaneously. and the summer holidays--time of partings--were at the door. And in some of the subsequent nights when he could not sleep. Then it san . they haunted him li e an importunate refrain. the mad sympathy that had permeated him on the night she had made him her confidant grew up in him again. he was amazed at its depth and clearness. for by the jump his heart gave. would have lain himself down for her to tread on. . now there was a bitterness in it which. there would be another storm in the night . as something existing for itself. . a night-wind shoo the tree-tops. when it swelled. he shran out of her way. At the same moment." As before. this time. and almost immediately his ear caught a muffled sound of footsteps. and went on in a monotone. he had had no further chance of spea ing to her. For he new now why she suffered. its tones rose and fell. he composed fantastic letters to her. and he would perhaps never see her again. . unseen. he new that Louise was one of the spea ers. At first. Hearing it li e this. had there been the least need for it. Gradually. made it give out a tone li e the roughly touched strings of an instrument. but with more subtle inflections than the ordinary voice has: there was a note in it that might have belonged to a child's voice. If they met in the street. another. to be telling of unmerited suffering. It began anew. until now. Louise gave a shrill laugh.                               . she gave him. at the impertinent folly of his thoughts. there was a general fluttering and swaying around him. no answer was returned. he felt that her personal presence had. and he was cast down both for her and for himself. and from this coolness. more primitive. She would go away . only to colour guiltily. li e a cadence that repeats itself. it swelled out into something monstrous--a gigantic pity that rebounded on himself. in the interval. to her voice. indifferent one. seemed to have gained in intensity. who.

he had not observed anything further to disturb him. Having seen Mrs. he had not been mista en. standing with one foot on the step. till the first. in a becoming travelling-dress. his suspicions were on the verge of subsiding--as suspicions have a way of doing when we wish them to--and in the last day or two. seeing his friends off." The train started.                           . and this was not untrue. he had begun to feel much less sure. where she was to meet her English charges. and he long retained a picture of her. As. however. Dove was on tenterhoo s to be off. Maurice spent a couple of days at the different railway-stations. on the advisability of an American daughter-in-law. and while he printed labels for his luggage. she had been so sweet and winning. however. The Cayhills had been among the first to leave. I almost wish I were not going. on their journey to Switzerland. and too a circumstantial leave of his landlady and her family. too. while. ready to set out an hour after he had had his last lesson. and of nowing more of her movements than before. Dove was pac ed and strapped. he has none left for the people who are remaining behind. resident in a side street in Peterborough. Too dutiful a son. and a small hand-bag slung across her shoulder. with whom he was a prime favourite by reason of his decent and orderly habits. and receives their care and attention as his due. and been highly commended by Schwarz. so modestly encouraging of his suit. Morry. his feeling of responsibility with regard to her had not flagged. things had gone superlatively well with him: he had performed with applause in an ABENDUNTERHALTUNG. boo s and cushions. Of late.' don't forget. such an important step as that of proposing marriage. One after another they passed into that anticipatory mood. in spite of the pretty new dresses her trun s contained. and tell me what goes on? All the news you hear and who you see and everything. unauthorised. The second half of July scattered the little circle in all directions. which ma es an egoist of the prospective traveller: his thoughts start. "Say. he stood till the train went. tal ing to Ephie. "I shall miss you. he was now travelling home to sound two elderly people. One afternoon. as it were. and given Johanna assistance with the tic ets. POSTE RESTANTE. I don't believe I shall enjoy myself one bit. and to wonder if. and would be absent till the middle of September." said Madeleine. and he had made a point of seeing her more often. her hand erchief fluttered from the window until the carriage was out of sight. Maurice fetched for him from the lending library. a hat with a veil flying from it. and well aware of the admiring glances that were cast at her."---"Be sure you write. to ta e. laughing and dimpling. the pieces of music set by Schwarz as a holiday tas . that he had every reason to hope for success in this quarter also. "Christiania." said Ephie. It was a relief to Maurice that she was going away for a time. in advance. You will write. as for Ephie. and then Bergen.XII. when he saw her off early in the morning to Berlin. Maurice started them from the THURINGER BAHNHOF. won't you. Morry. in the corner of a first-class carriage. after all. 'FROKEN WADE. Cayhill comfortably settled with her bags.

for he not only paid for all the beer that was drun . Maurice passed the former building. The days passed. the master had also not displayed the same detailed interest in his plans for the summer. from houses which had hitherto been clangrous with musical noises. Maurice went to visit Frau Furst. in process of scouring. the familiar smell of roasting coffee. their brooms and buc ets. from which there was no escape. Business slac ened. tropical in their violence: blasts of thunder crac ed li e splitting beams. The next moment. and. unmar ed. they sat round the itchen-table. sizzling sheets. but. that it supplied one or other of the little girls as well. li e the uniform pages of a dull boo . and the young striplings that followed the river in the LAMPESTRASSE. which had evidently been in his mind when they met. he would see the janitor sitting at leisure in the middle of the pavement. Every three or four days. The old trees in the PROMENADE. not a sound issued. Of late. soon lay dead and deserted. he hardly exchanged a word with anyone. at first given over to relays of charwomen. Krafft was sauntering along with his hands in his poc ets. This was one reason why he had not gone away li e every one else. was intensified. it was as hot as ever. sudden storms swept up. and the ba ed pavements were warm to the feet. This story. He had stopped and impulsively greeted the young man. too. to Frau Furst's reminiscences. and the fact                                           . he was pulled up by a jer of surprise in front of the PLEISSENBURG. he loo ed vaguely and somewhat moodily at Maurice. hung out their curtains to flutter on the sill. even Furst. fierce and unremittent. and. burst into a witty and obscene anecdote. the sun beat. which haunted most house. Maurice grew so accustomed to meet no one he new. rain fell in white. and had his supper with the family.and stair-ways. and the midday rest in shops and offices was extended beyond its usual limit. and out of drains and rivers rose nauseous and penetrating odours. without preamble. that he had been unwilling to write home for an increase of allowance. With the beginning of August. An odd stillness reigned in the BRAUSTRASSE and its neighbourhood. Sometimes. lightning darted along the narrow streets. however.Maurice was alone. all day long. But the morning after. as in those of the rest of the class. he laid a hand on the lappel of Maurice's coat. listening. Schwarz had been somewhat cool and off-hand in manner with him. When the solitude grew unbearable. when the atmosphere of the town had reached a pitch of unsavouriness which it seemed impossible to surpass. in the main. eventless. before he recalled his previous antipathy to him. Familiar rooms and lodgings were either closely shuttered. when the day was hot. but sat at his piano the livelong day. on being accosted. drooped their brown leaves thic with dust. and if. He was a welcome guest. Otherwise. smo ing his long blac cigar. who had obtained a holiday engagement in a villa near Dresden. the children with the old-fashioned solemnity that characterised them. or. he wor ed bris ly at Czerny's FINGERFERTIGKEIT. but also brought such a generous portion of sausage for his own supper. on this city of the plains. in the evening. Conservatorium and Gewandhaus. Afterwards. the other. and with such perseverance that ultimately his fingers stumbled from fatigue. every one he new disappeared. the heat grew oppressive. that one afternoon towards the middle of August. he envied his friends refreshing themselves by wood. mountain or sea. on stumbling across Heinrich Krafft.

Krafft next fetched mil and a saucer. if he did not get rid of it. she paused with her hand on the door. entered. only particulars Maurice bore away from their interview. when the door opened. half-starved street-cat. He explained his proceedings in a whisper. on his nees before it. he came upon a group of children. but none the loo ed grudgingly after the other's vanishing form.A day or two later. Then she saw the saucer of mil . he crooned in a wordless language. "If I put the saucer down and leave it. "it won't help at all. he saw Krafft again. A cat's confidence must be won straight away." he said. inciting it and restraining it. from a cupboard in the wall. and. against the wall of a house. and went down on his nees again: while Maurice sat and watched and wondered at his tireless endeavours to induce the animal to advance. he ic ed the dog. Krafft remained undisturbed. and loo ed from him to Maurice. he had stood before brea ers twenty feet high. At the sight of Krafft crouching on the floor. and fled under the furthest corner of the sofa. As he was going through an outlying street. the anger she displayed seemed out of proportion to the trival offence. he the North Sea. He begged Maurice to accompany him to his lodgings. and the cat was quiet. "Ssh!--be quiet." He was still in this position." Her placidly tragic face had grown hard. while Krafft. a large. stood and moc ed him.   . with a deft and perfectly noiseless movement." she said explanatorily. and there Maurice held the animal. caught up the cat and hid its head under his coat. While Maurice was considering how to expostulate with them. examined the wound. it jumped from the table. yet not more to Maurice than to herself. and once out of his reach. some volumes of music she was carrying. his companion of a previous occasion. The children formed a half circle round it. and understood." said Krafft peevishly. and two of the biggest boys held a young and lively dog by the collar. and revelling in the cat's convulsive starts at each capering bar . terrified and blinded. He nows as well as I do that he cannot eep a cat here. Letting fall on the grand piano. without loo ing up. the animal had been hit in the eye by a stone. Go and                                     that. in spite of the pain he caused it. by were the previous less. and ordered the rest to disperse. "And the last was so dirty and destructive that Frau Schulz threatened to turn him out. jer ed two of the children apart. "Heinz!" she said again. "It's not the least use scolding. As he did this. she continued sternly: "Another cat!--oh. Then. The children did so lingeringly. ma ing persuasive little noises. But directly he too his hands off it. it is abominable of you! This is the third he has pic ed up this year. cuffing the biggest boy. His impatience with such eccentricity returned. and this time the word was a reprimand. and cowered. and Avery Hill. Krafft came swiftly up behind. "Heinz?" she said interrogatively. and altogether. The girl too no notice of Maurice's attempt to greet her. towards evening. who were amusing themselves by teasing a cat.

which. But Krafft would not hear of it. She did not wish the young men good-night. you are not to play. into the next room. when Krafft bro e into the loud. "Now then. to search for something among the scattered music. but less suspiciously. "If it weren't for you. carried what was unmista ably a bundle of soiled linen. It crept a step its nose to sniff at the mil . Krafft clasped his hands behind his head. She was absent for a few minutes. it seemed as if the girl were going to flash out a bitter retort that might have betrayed her. and the animal paused in its hungry gulping to rub its bac against the caressing hand. and when Avery returned. I am going to play to you.ma e it right with the old crow. Stay. When the last drop of mil was finished. in the girl's further into its hiding-place. all of a sudden. and when she reappeared. Krafft rose to his feet and stretched himself. she said in an unfriendly tone: "Do you now what time it is?" and to Krafft: "It is late. she will tell you it is necessary to live. but. retreated again. the day after. is it all right?" She did not reply. every day--to waste it in teaching children finger-exercises. li e a good fellow. he pressed him into his seat again. without a word. "O LENE! LENE! O MAGDALENE!" he sang under his breath. but tomorrow." she declared. gave a slight shrug.   Krafft touched its head. and now said he must go. If you as her why she does it.--Come. Heiriz. it withdrew to its corner. who was justly indignant." He flic ed the eys of the piano with his hand erchief. in the passage. disputing with the landlady. and leaning against the table. stretched out and." said Krafft after a pause. Maurice received the impression that a by-play was being carried on between these two. watched her with an ironical curl of the lip. but went to the piano. for the second time. Necessary to live!--who has ever proved that it is?" For an instant. and went out of the room. the volumes of music she had pic ed out on the other. Then she showed the same self-control as before. and. He had risen at once.                         ." The door had barely closed behind her. "Here. ladies and gentlemen. repellent laugh that had so jarred on Maurice at their former meeting. began to forward. threw bac his head. emerged and dran presence. "Loo at this. is one of those rare persons who have a jot of talent in them. and half closing his eyes. They heard her.               Meanwhile the cat. puss. had shrun still ma e advances. greedily. in passing Maurice. "Don't mind her. and went. and off she goes--I don't mean at this moment. he smiled at her. adjusted the distance of his seat. Of course. come. I wouldn't eep him another day. with an effusive warmth of manner." The girl chec ed the words that rose to her lips. going away with this on one arm. Fraulein.

with an impatient gesture. He had been dragged upstairs against his will. as for Krafft to play to him. the river stretched silver-scaled in the moonlight. He had hitherto only nown Chopin's music as played in the sentimental fashion of the English drawing-room. however. He could not. and the moonlight lay thic and white on the ground: a night to provo e to extravagant follies. what failed it was only the last philosophic calm. But Krafft also too his down from a peg. a strong mental antagonism was still uppermost in him. Here. and if. Krafft wal ed in front of his companion. "If I didn't. dropped through the trees li e monstrous silver thalers. "She ma es me promise to. that's what you are! The way you treat that poor. dangling loosely. His slender hands. Frau Schulz. call me names if it pleases you. this music was. Maurice ceased to thin of escaping. pointing over her shoulder at an imaginary person. Krafft wa ened as if out of a trance. to say that it was long past ten o'cloc . no matter how pessimistic it appeared on the surface. of course." she whispered to Maurice. But no excuse for leaving offered itself. and. you're a rascal. in preoccupied silence. he                                                                 . When at length.began to play. Maurice resumed his seat reluctantly. and each moment made it harder to interrupt the player. a robust person. and hid his eyes from the light. the room was soon in dar ness. After he had listened for a time. He had as little desire for the girl to return and find him there. now that various small things had combined to throw the player into one of his most prodigal moods: the rescue and taming of the cat. came some one who made it clear that. who had promptly forgotten the fact of his presence. all the same. at its core an essentially masculine music." It was a breathless August night. her stimulating forbiddal. and opening the window.--Yes. the one silent listener in the dar --this stranger. Maurice rose with renewed decision. pic ed up at random in the streets. Frau Schulz entered. leaned out on the sill: a wave of warm air filled the room. last and best. laden with intensified scents and smells. Madeleine had once alluded to Krafft's s ill as an interpreter of Chopin." Krafft waved her away. And if I am a hag. towards the moody creature at whose heels he followed. In the utter stillness of the woods. disregarded his protests. and to whom he might reveal himself with an indecency that friendship precluded. he'd go on all night. it ic ed desperately against the pric s of existence. had sat an uncomfortable spectator. yes. Names don't ill. "Yes. in her bed-jac et. li e a gigantic fish-bac . the young men passed from places of in y blac ness into bluish white patches. and from time to time. good creature ma es one's blood boil. he had not expected anything li e what he now heard. he turned the palms outward. He's no more fit to loo after himself than a baby--and he gets it again with his boots in the morning. now. Maurice wished himself alone. but. He was not at ease under this new companionship that had thrust itself upon him. and throughout the foregoing scene. at this moment. and herself loc ed the piano and too the ey. indeed. who had never yet heard him play. still twitched from their recent exertions. and sought his hat. Except for the unsteady flic erings cast on the wall by a street-lamp. the passage-at-arms with Avery. and at first he could not ma e anything of it. The town lay behind them in a glorifying haze. let us go out.

have you never stood before a doorway--the doorway of some strange house that you have perhaps never consciously gone past before--and waited. and was as much embarrassed as though as ed whether he believed in God. Maurice. in order not to betray his ignorance. for a coffin to be carried out?--the coffin of an utter stranger. and tal ed as if the subjects he touched on were as familiar to Maurice as to himself. or whether I thin about it all day long--I now the hour will come. I will tell you. If he thought Maurice were about to interrupt him. and Apollonic and Dionysian. and the propriety of coloured sculpture. no matter how I laugh. and finally. the term "crazy idiot" would have been the first to rise to his lips. And have you not thought to yourself. "Do you ever thin of death?" Maurice had been the listener for so long that he started. Names jostled one another on his tongue: he passed from Beethoven and Chopin to Berlioz and Wagner. Suddenly. cho e. Meanwhile. to spring over to the next theme ready in his brain. for Krafft was not didactic. melancholy Wien. I don't thin I do. But one word gave another. or weep. one to-morrow. for the first and the last time. he spo e for the pure joy of tal ing.had been as ed to give voice to his feelings. Krafft commenced to spea : at first in a low voice. Listen. out of the motley profusion of his nowledge. and he continued almost fearfully: "I have the vision of it before me. when I shall gasp. he swept the silence before him with the force of a flood set free. to Liszt and Richard Strauss--and his words were to Maurice li e the unrolling of a great scroll. no power on earth can eep it from me. grow blac in the face. to ANATOL. always wherever I go. his thoughts came rapidly. to PAPA HAMLET and the future of the LIED. who is of interest to you now. And no one will be able to help me. and each day that passes brings me twenty-four hours nearer the end. he flung round and put a question to his companion. or slac ening his pace. with the atrocious curiosity that death and its hideous paraphernalia wa en in one." He drew still closer to Maurice. no matter how little thought I give it. In the same breath.                                                     . He ept as still as a mouse. wrought on by the beauty of the night. And it is all a matter of chance when it happens--a great lottery: one draws to-day. "I now--no matter how strong and sound I may be at this moment. but my turn will surely come. he began to gesticulate. "I don't now. without turning. and the gentle "Loris" of the early verses. and in an infinite need of expression. there is no escape from that hour. And while he was still spea ing with fervour of Vienna--which was his home--of gay. and from here he went on to Richard Dehmel. in the vain struggle for another single mouthful of that air which has always been mine at will. and drew him nearer. it is li e this. Maurice believed it was a matter of indifference to him whether he was understood or not. Why should one thin of death when one is alive and well?" Krafft laughed at this. and left what he was saying unfinished. to Max Klinger. still excited by his own playing. listening intently. "Tell me. "Happy you!" His voice san . he was with Nietzsche. as if he were thin ing aloud. with a pitying irony. he made an imploring gesture. by this choice moment for speech. had fleeting glimpses into a land of which he new nothing. or play the fool. On the other hand. "Happy you!" he said. at last." He laid his hand on Maurice's arm. he had grown personal. "Death?" he echoed. No.

li e useless lumber. that awful icy softness!--your flesh will begin to rot. . it lasted for months. with rigid fingers and half-closed eyes. to be out of reach of sight and smell of you. which glistened in the moonlight li e a living thing. and stood loo ing at the water. all will and dignity gone from you. just because it had once been your tenement. "No. Besides. and it was morbid to care so much how it was treated. yes. You would wish yourself out again. and was gazing at him." he went on. and as Krafft nodded. and your body. My life is a perpetual struggle against suicide. if you find them so awful? Are you not afraid your nerves will go through with you. "Of course I am. and used." answered Maurice. ice-cold." answered Krafft. But as they crossed the suspensionbridge. feet foremost. I saw him die. But Krafft had turned. God. under the same indifferent s y. a spring into this silver fire down here would end all that. and ma e you do something foolish?" as ed Maurice. where all the little human things you have loved. he felt that such rational arguments as he might be able to offer. and as yielding as meat to the touch--oh. which was stammered forth with the bitterness of an accusation. you yourself will be carried out. when it was now as worthless as the crab's empty shell. after being carted. and unloaded. in his halting German. and was himself astonished at his boldness. not sure how his companion would ta e the didactic tone he had fallen into. it is quite true. then paused. are lying just as you left them--the boo you laid down." And as the former. Go on. And so. it is impossible for me to put death out of my mind. it is unbearable!" He wiped his forehead. and satisfy one's curiosity as well. You are mere dead flesh. to be such that not your nearest friend would touch you. was mute. in this selfsame way. he died by inches. Every one had to die when his time came. the coat you wore--now all of a greater worth than you. is to be rid of you. "And yet." "Those of fear and cold. Krafft stopped.with a shudder. then. He suggested that always to be brooding over death unfitted you for life. Why is one not readier to ma e the spring?--and what would one's sensations be? The mad rush through the air--the crash--the sin ing in the awful blac ness . he nodded a hasty assent: "Yes. not nowing what to say. and jolted. he ventured to put forward a few points for the other side of the question. and Maurice was silent. never to enter there again?--there. and lived amongst. whatever you li ed to call it--what did it matter what afterwards became of your body? It was. he added: "You are li e some one I once new. He stuttered this out piece-wise. and the chief desire of every one." "Why do you brood over these things. He was a great musician. . without seeming to resent his tone. he could neither die nor live. considering him attentively for the first time. the spirit. among a group of loiterers as idly curious as these. in reality. would have little value in the face of this intensely personal view.                                       . that some day. having nothing more to say. you will be thrown into a hole. fresh nourishment for the soil. and behind the horrid lid lie star and cold. nothing but lumber. it was foolish to loo upon your own death as an exception to the rule. When Maurice ceased to spea . even of those you have loved most. when sensation had left you--the soul. li e a bale of goods.

not only to one's fellows. At this stage. slim fingers." "It sounds so easy. Krafft turned to him and said in a low voice: "What do you say? Shall you and I be friends?" Maurice hesitated. as they stood thus on the bridge. Maurice learnt to his surprise that the slim." to become a cler in a wealthy uncle's counting-house. at the instigation of Hans von Bullow. had been so overbearing. amiss. doing his best to eep down the sentimental tone that had invaded the conversation." Maurice was far from certain that he did. with one of his unexpected transitions." "And you will let me say 'DU' to you?" "Certainly. Had Maurice nown him better. he did not understand how he could ever have ta en anything this frail creature did. of the inspiring gain of unremitted endeavour. and once again to Maurice's. he laughed. "Who am I to sit in judgment? The only thing I do now is. If you are sure you won't regret it in the morning." As it was. and one has the feeling that you understand. and finally. and. on travel. "Why yes. You are strong and sympathetic. of duty. As Maurice held in his the fine. and that it was even a little beneath him to ta e the other too seriously. and it was on Maurice's tongue to suggest that they should move homewards." Krafft stretched out his hand.In the distance. At heart he was little moved by this new friendship. boyish lad at his side was over twenty-seven years of age. "You thin so poorly of me then? You thin no good thing can come out of me?" as ed Krafft. and laid his hand on Maurice's shoulder. Krafft had studied medicine in Vienna. and was at present in Leipzig solely to have his "fingers put in order. "And I have never had anyone to eep me up to the mar --till now. a church-cloc struc a quarter to twelve. he seized the moment. and spo e earnestly to Krafft of earnest things. to music. for several semesters. I should be very glad. shoulder to shoulder. but I have too many doubts of myself. At this moment. he answered in a fran way. and in Hamburg. a quarter of it--I should pull myself together and astonish the world. which instinctively roused his manlier feelings. At the moment." His plans for the future were many. they sauntered home--first to Maurice's lodging. which hail begun with the word itself. impelled by this sudden burst of protectiveness. I have always needed some one li e you. He said to himself that he had done wrong in lightly condemning his companion. Afterwards. which. But. From this. which seemed mere s in and muscle. but a short time bac . At                                           . he had the lively sensation that he was the stronger and wiser of the two. that if I had your talent--no. but to oneself and one's abilities. there was a clinging helplessness about Krafft. which would be forgotten in the morning. and widely divergent. when." said Krafft. then had thrown up this "disgusting occupation. he would have promptly retorted: "Don't be a fool. he told himself that it was only a whim of Krafft's. in some embarrassment. However. Krafft was fran ness itself. then to Krafft's. and there was an appealing note in his voice. he had drifted into journalism. that. he had been for two and a half years with Bullow. a hitherto un nown feeling of indliness came over him for the young man at his side.

they                                   . who. under the despotic rule of Frau Krause. in the house he lived in. There. after a busy forenoon. not far from Vienna. the glancing sunlight in the utter silence of the corridors. not a day passed without his seeing Krafft. too. he stood at the window. and after inspecting it. standing on a wooded hill. It is just one of his whims--nothing more. Maurice put forward his reasons for preferring to remain where he was. his chee s pin with haste and excitement. Maurice found himself to rights in his role of mentor. he subordinated himself entirely to Maurice. for the latter to be able to understand them. On wa ing next morning. he soon induced his friend to study in a more methodical way. a musical career tempted him irresistibly. every one but Schwarz--this finger-machine." she continued to Maurice. He had just shut the piano. and dismissed it from his mind. and more often. and not wishing to hurt his feelings. reading Novalis. It was larger and more cheerful than his own. But Krafft would ta e no denial. He spo e with a morbid horror--yet as if the idea of it fascinated him--of the publicity of the concert-platform. recovering from an illness. as she always did where others would have flushed. In less than a wee . a convenient alcove for the bedstead. Maurice gave way. At other times. As it was. his forehead pressed against the glass. Krafft did not spea . she said: "It is an absurd idea--sheer nonsense! I won't have it. you would wish yourself away again. and began to flatter himself that he would ultimately ma e of Krafft a decent member of society. and it still seemed to him that the wishless happiness of those days was the greatest he had nown. who too every advantage of his good-nature. and had also. and the gardens. He had lain day for day on a garden-bench. "but you must not listen to him. and laid an ever-increasing weight on his opinion. So Maurice continued to live in the BRAUSTRASSE. he contemplated retiring from the world and entering a monastery. this generator of living metronomes--believed that he could ma e a name for himself as a player of Chopin. Growing pale. Maurice recalled the incidents of the evening with a smile.one time. Without difficulty. understand that! Pray. with his bac to them." Maurice hastened to reassure her. Beside this. and the hint of a reproof from him served to throw Krafft into a state of nervous depression. then classed the whole episode as strained. however. You have no idea how changeable he is--how impossible to live with. and agreed at least to loo at the room. Maurice hardly recognised him: he was gentle. He had once spent several wee s there. Laughing at his eagerness. amiable. They withdrew to Krafft's room to come to a decision. Maurice felt willing to expend the extra mar s it cost. when Krafft burst in. and amenable to reason. as soon as she heard what they contemplated. Maurice's account of himself sounded tame and unimportant. put a veto on it. He had discovered a room to let. that the circumstances of English life were too far removed from his companion's sphere. he felt. were things he could not forget. and painted in glowing colours a monastery he new of. the latter sought him out on trivial pretexts. the trimly bedded flowers. they found Avery Hill. and nothing would satisfy him but that Maurice should come instantly to see it. Maurice became able to wind him round his finger. excuse me. spea ing in a more friendly tone than she had yet used to him. felt a touch of warmth at the remembrance of the moment when he had held Krafft's hand in his. But after this.

her manner with him was invariably severe and distant. Avery Hill could hardly be termed third in the alliance. But why tal about these things?"--he slipped his arm through Maurice's.practised for the same number of hours in the forenoon. "But why. he soon grew genuinely attached to Krafft. at which Maurice stood aghast." It usually ended in his playing. The latter ended by growing accustomed to this whim as to several other things that had jarred on him--such as Krafft's love for a dirty jest--and overloo ed or forgave them. despite remonstrance. he. by appearing in the BRAUSTRASSE early in the morning. Maurice was not clear how she regarded his intrusion. beneath which Krafft shran . Maurice believed that his friend would be happier away from her. he had never heard them exchange an affectionate word. with the exception of those occasions when a seeming trifle raised in her a burst of the dull. when his companion ventured to ta e her part. and Heinz neglected her shamefully for him. if you despise a person li e that--why have her always about you?" he cried. and. he was an interloper. at the end of a flaming plea for woman's dignity and worth. One afternoon--it was a warm. from the moment we are laid in the cradle. and missed him when he was absent from him. disdainful eye. Avery's attachment--if such it could be called--was noticeable only in the many small ways in which she cared for Krafft's comfort. "Tell me about yourself. passionate anger. The jealousy was natural. throwing himself on the sofa. particularly when she saw the improvement in Heinrich's way of life. The two lived almost door by door. they are made to be trodden on. in spite of her fresh colouring. and when you are tired of tal ing. reticent concerning her. found her wanting in attraction. it was in a tone of such contempt that Maurice was glad to shir the subject. nothing that a woman ought to be. It's a woman who puts on our first clothes and a woman who puts on our last. at others again. women are all ali e. her jealous aversion to him was too open to be overloo ed. or seen a mar of endearment pass between them. Believe me. and yet." Krafft had replied. "I suppose the truth is we are dependent on them--yes. and they spread li e a weed. Let them alone. "It's all she wants. red lips. another feeling. and when he did spea of her. Maurice. or pamper them. as a rule. Krafft shrugged his shoulders. They ranged through the highways and byways of music. went in and out of each other's rooms at all hours. grey day towards the end of                                         . "She wouldn't than you to be treated differently. but there was something else behind it. At first embarrassed by the mushroom growth of a friendship he had not invited. He by no means understood the relationship that existed between his friend and this girl of the stone-grey eyes and stern. wet. she seemed to tolerate his presence gladly. But her name was rarely mentioned between them. Krafft was. I will play. while Maurice practised. where she ept watch over their doings with her cold. and cho e you"--and he quoted a saying about going to women and not forgetting the whip. which Maurice could not ma e out. and remaining there. Sometimes. Maurice's advent had thrust her into the bac ground. Ill-usage brings out their good points--just as neading ma es dough light. and Krafft only sometimes bro e through this arrangement. dependent. and met in the afternoon.

"I am going to play TRISTAN to you. and her grumblings at the "UNVERSCHAMTE SPEKTAKEL" passed unheeded.August--Maurice found Krafft in a strangely apathetic mood. he stopped short. had got on his nerves. falling into a chair before the table. never gave his hearer a moment in which to recover himself. and. drun with the most emotional music conceived by a human brain." Mendelssohn and Meyerbeer. all of a sudden. He laughed and nodded. and. Evening crept on afternoon. Sometimes he sang the different parts. in fact. A church-cloc struc ten. his head in a whirl. he played from memory. he had been unable to settle to anything. sometimes recited them. to which he had been led by the misdeeds of those "arch-charlatans. "You are not going to leave me?--li e this?" Maurice was both hungry and tired--worn out. Only he never ceased to play. this moist warmth. he set the piano-score up before him. in the middle of a vehement defence of anti-Semitism. "We will go somewhere in the town. and they saw that the stars were shining. rose stiff and cramped from his uncomfortable position on the sofa. on his chest slept Wotan. While Maurice was trying to rally him. A strength that was more than human seemed to ta e possession of the frail youth at the piano. li e a run-down cloc . "You rascal. and went on playing by heart. Krafft sprang up. when this gave out. lay down in the latter's place on the sofa. and not for a moment was he still. and raised a haggard face with twitching lips. and still he continued. There was silence. and was heard to stretch his limbs. "And then for a wal . lighting two candles. now growing slee and fat. with a yawn and a sigh. and tal ed--tal ed for hours. When Maurice entered. indeed. Even when hands and fingers could do no more. set them on the piano. night on evening. sweet tenor. the frenzy that was in him would not let him rest: he paced the room. Frau Schulz's entry with the lamp. With a precipitance that was the extreme opposite of his previous sloth. I must snatch something at Canitz's as I go by. the more intense for all that had preceded it. in a light. he was stretched on the sofa. Then. And I am starving." Maurice had learnt by this time that it was useless to try to thwart Krafft. finding in the music an outlet for all his nervousness. then forgot it again. then eleven. where they dispersed the immediate dar ness. The rain has stopped--loo !" He drew up one of the blinds. then half-past. but no more. ecstatic way. The spell was bro en. he said." said Krafft. with dramatic fervour. Krafft shoo his hair bac . to gather impetus as it advanced li e a mountain torrent. The weather. he lowered both window-blinds. buried his face in his arms. his eyes ablaze. Maurice. with closed eyes. Wotan wa ened from sleep. his speech seemed. you ma e one lose all sense of time." Krafft started. and began the prelude to the opera in a rapt. At first. the one-eyed cat. was weighed down by a lassitude heavier than iron.                                       . and having nothing in particular to do.

be reasonable. at once. go. had made his manner so repellent. Not a day after the fifteenth will I have him in the house. which." Earlier than usual the next morning. Maurice learned that Krafft had been brought home early that morning. give me the house. "I never want to see you again. Maurice made one further attempt to move him." It was true. frightened away by it." Krafft too a few steps towards him." said Avery. that he did not seem in the least ashamed of his fic leness. gradually. And to-night is. but what about to-morrow?--and to-morrow's wor ?" "To-morrow may never come." "Why on earth get personal?" said Maurice. with reddish. But Krafft was not to be seen. go!" Krafft cried. "He doesn't want you. He was wholly changed. It was Avery here. in affright. He called her by a pet name." "Those are only words."Yes. rallied. From Frau Schulz. he could not believe Heinrich's pique was serious. I have as ed of you.ey--li e a good fellow. I have said it before and." "Nonsense. At first. and gave himself trouble to win his friend bac . laughed. But. "SO 'N SCHWEIN. he could not find his hat. Two days passed before he saw his friend again. "And if I ma e it a test of the friendship you have professed for me. But now. heavy eyes and a sneering smile. intruded no more. Frau Schulz still boiled at the remembrance. after watching his fruitless efforts. he was chiefly angry. "But this time he goes. that you stay here with me to-night?--You can sleep on the sofa. have always let them persuade me. who was at the door. "Heinz. But this is the end. "Go. which had fallen in a dar corner. and threw the ey on the floor at his feet. then. his words were tainted with the perverse irony. Come. Maurice was not. He chid. which made him avoid the                                 . "I thin you had better leave him alone. who flounced past him in the passage. and all this without being conscious of having done wrong. at the beginning of their acquaintance. and Avery there. Wotan. fool that I am. was earnest and apologetic. in a disgraceful state of intoxication. SO 'N SCHWEIN!" she cried." Maurice slipped away. He found him pale and dejected. and hung affectionately on her arm.--The worst of it was. dear boy. and to laugh with Heinz at their extravagance the night before. Do you now the time?" Krafft turned quic ly from the window. was anxious for her comfort. first with hot water. hurt and angry. the hurt deepened. then with blac coffee. now Krafft had no thought for anyone but Avery. and became a sense of injury." "It's the first--the only thing. Maurice returned to set things right. mewing to be let out. sprang bac . You have as ed dozens.

if he ta es you into confidence--as he probably will--you are not on any account to dissuade him from proposing. to those of his friends who cared to hear it. He missed him. Louise wrote from England. She was no more a friend of Schils y's than he was. "Mind. XIII. The commencement of the new term had just assembled the incoming students to sign their names in the venerable rollboo . if." whom they had learnt to now in Interla en. and shun him when they met. Maurice. to hear what ind of stuff he had turned out.street Krafft lived in. ZARATHUSTRA." commented Madeleine. his attention had not been engrossed by another and more important matter." They were not the first to climb the ill-lighted stair that wound up to the Fursts' dwelling." Dove had arrived a couple of days ago--and here Madeleine laughed. who." The Cayhills would be absent till the middle of the month. liberally rewarded for her trouble. "Of course--now he is here. "You'll come. Madeleine had still much to say. And he would no doubt have missed him more eenly still." said the latter to Maurice. after the close companionship of the past wee s. but also expressing eagerness to be at home again in "dear old Leipzig. loud in praise of a family of "perfectly sweet Americans. it ma es him ever so much better disposed towards you. "Even though they do cost ten mar s each. of course. and she was drawing up detailed plans of wor . but she certainly intended to be present. This was to be her last winter in Leipzig. and felt as if he had been suddenly deprived of a part of himself. in which the latter announced her return for the following wee . and possessed of four new friends. She had returned from her holiday in the best of health and spirits." she declared. and Furst lent his house for the occasion." She also told him that she had found a letter from Louise waiting for her. I suppose. that he has been travelling with Zeppelin? He has the luc of I don't now what. she intended to ta e private lessons from Schwarz. in addition to those she received in the class. Maurice and she wal ed together to the BRANDVORWERKSTRASSE. Curiosity swelled the number. On the evening of the performance. would all be of use to her when she settled in England again. A snub will do him worlds of good. Maurice had received from Ephie one widely written note. "You now. and Madeleine said the same thing while driving home from the railway-station. where Maurice had met her. From now on. The entry-door on the fourth storey stood                                       . "He is absolutely shiny with resolution. and all her cry was to be bac in Leipzig. when the report spread that Schils y was willing to play his symphonic poem. as they left Schwarz's room after their lesson. no doubt. just at this juncture.

The circular hat-stand in the passage was crowded with motley headgear. Franz himself came into the distrustfully at his whispering mother. Franz----" "Now then. Maurice stared at her.       At this very moment. "He is going away. Herr Guest. laid a finger on her lips. Oh. It has form. has young Schils y! This is not the usual wor of a pupil. As they passed the itchen. he stemmed his hands against the edge of the table. he has talent. haven't you got that beer yet?" he demanded. a cloth in the other. with a saucepan in one hand. at three of the children sitting as still as mice in the corner. Sitting bac in his chair. called him in. it is wonderful. When my good husband had his evenings." Maurice as ed her if she were not coming in to hear the music. GLEICH. he must sit down and drin a cup of coffee. He loo ed                                       . "For such a young man. FRANZCHEN. "Why Schils y. no. and loo ed challengingly at Frau Furst. with the air of one caught napping. great talent." Pausing." she answered soothingly. Schils y has not come yet. I now one of the motives from hearing Franz play it. and seeing Maurice. "It's a secret. and nodded confirmingly. "Bless your heart. the door of which was ajar. she said: "You will hear something good to-night. "Going away? Who is? What do you mean?" he as ed." "How do you now?" cried Maurice. the scrupulously cleaned pot. as if by magic. it was always from the itchen that I listened. mother. he will. bursting with mystery. "There is plenty of time. depend upon it.open. too. "Ssh--not so loud. Frau Furst peeped through the slit. among all you young people? No. he is going away. "GLEICH. And soon. when he entered his home circle. a dead secret-though I'm sure I don't now why. Maurice followed Furst's invitation to join the rest of the party. The coffee-pot was still on the stove. what should I do in there. "Yes." She thought his astonishment was disbelief. She laughed good-naturedly at the idea. leaned over the table and as ed Maurice if he could eep a secret. and. and it has ideas. and he was particularly gruff with this adoring woman. yes. I can hear just as well where I am. and was so struc by her peculiar manner that he set his cup down untouched." and she hummed a theme as she replaced on the shelf. and I have only this moment sent Adolfchen for the beer. and it is new and daring. and a hum of voices came from the sitting-room." Here she threw a hasty glance round the tiny itchen." she whispered. His genial bonhomie disappeared. itchen." said the latter. of course. but he will do better still. and whis ed about her wor again.

he laid his hand on Krafft's nee. and he jer ed forward in his seat and threw himself bac again. it suddenly became clear to him that the piece of gossip Frau Furst had volunteered. in an abrupt need of sympathy. Beside Madeleine. there you are. to disturb his life. "No. I did my best to eep the place for you. for a slight stir in the next room made them suppose for a moment that Schils y was arriving. which was lighted only by one small lamp. and the many breaths." The air was already hot. and. and. Dove sat on a chest of drawers next the sofa. his long legs dangling in the air." cried Madeleine. Madeleine leaned forward. Krafft was to be seen straying about." he replied.The folding-doors between the "best room" and the adjoining bedroom had been opened wide. Madeleine could not refrain from remar ing: "He ought to have been a girl." cried Madeleine. had proved so disconcerting--a loo of struggling recollection. his hands twitched. with his hands in his poc ets. old man? What have you been doing with yourself?" Krafft gave him one of those loo s which. and at Maurice's curt reply. but also without warmth. with their arms interlaced to give them a better balance. Maurice found Madeleine on a ric ety little sofa that stood at the foot of the bed. The former was brilliantly lighted by three lamps and two candles. we'll squeeze him properly. as you see. "Oh." Krafft was nervously excited: bright red spots burnt on his chee s. for. "Sit up and behave yourself. get up. sat on the edge of the low wooden bedstead. on observing his rose-pin chee s and tumbled curly hair. "Is it you. "Anyone would thin you were going to play yourself. without hostility. with his head on her shoulder. however. and all the sitting-accommodation the house contained was ranged in a semicircle round the grand piano. before she finished spea ing. had been of the nature of a blow. Here. Just sit down. Heinz. Two girls and a young man. nothing in particular. ma ing shift with whatever offered. was Krafft. incessantly. "Well. in the early days of their acquaintance. And he will be as cool as an iceberg. but it was of no use. Afterwards. by reason of the lamps." Maurice was glad that the room. was in semi-dar ness. and the guests were distributed over the two rooms. If you can't stop fidgeting. she pushed Krafft from her.                                             ." He had gone. The sofa won't stand it. losing patience. those who had come late were in the bedroom. in a way he postponed for the present thin ing out. One would thin you had an evil spirit in you to-night. Between us. at the sound of his own voice. you are worse than a mosquito. not a place was vacant. His mind was not with his words. dislodging Krafft's head from its resting-place. having pushed bac the feather-bed. Schils y's departure threatened. and Maurice withdrew his hand. "Oh. "How long have you two been 'DU' to each other?" she as ed.

Above all other voices was to be heard that of Miss Jensen. and that would be the end of everything. And my landlady--she's a regular singer herself--who was fixing up the room. she advised a few late-comers where they would still find room. too. in the course of which she now and then interrupted herself to remind Furst--who. in a spec led yellow dress. full volume of voice. he new now what it signified. It was she who directed how the beer should be apportioned. and said: 'ICH WERDE TELEGRAPHIEREN UND ERKUNDIGUNGEN EINZIEHEN. the Swede. how she had "discovered" her voice. with a large feather fan in her hand. a plump little American lady. every two or three persons shared one between them--a proceeding that was carried out with much noisy mirth. Louise would probably go. with straight yellow hair which hung down on her shoulders. he was in such poor spirits that she could not but observe it. and yet our engine bro e down before Magdeburg?"                                                 . was relating to her neighbour on the other side. in a tone that could be clearly heard in both rooms. and of cutting up Sperling's method. I guess he was. "Just let me hear your scale. "I come to Schwarz. "that I had seen the luggage with my own eyes at Flushing. will you?" she said patronisingly to Mrs. for a short time.and the firmly shut double-windows. The clamour for beer had become universal by the time Adolfchen arrived with his arms full of bottles. and I went to Sperling to hear what he'd got to say. do you thin if you said to an English station-master: 'Sir. the whole German railway-system needs revision. His vague sense of impending misfortune had crystallised into a definite thought. If Schils y went away from Leipzig. and engaged Furst to place the lights on the piano to better advantage. As there were not enough glasses to go round. we did not ma e fifty ilometers in the hour. all other noises were drowned in a fine. and he's going to ma e something dandy of it. she claps her hands together and says: 'My goodness me! Why YOU have a voice!' That's what put it in my head. last fall. "and he thin s no end of me. On their sofa. "Why are you so quiet? Is anything the matter?" He shoo his head." he heard Dove saying. in my opinion. a Mrs. sat in the middle of the front row of seats. Lautenschlager. he says: 'Come home and be sic at home'--that's what he says. stuc out her chin." she said sha ing bac her hair. But the other wee I was sic . What do you thin he answered? He loo ed me up and down. and. She made quite a little speech. Next her. As for Maurice. such as snuffing the candles or closing the door. When I wrote him I was sic ." Miss Jensen could not let pass the opportunity of brea ing a lance for her own master. pretending to listen to Dove. I don't now what my husband'll say though. Madeleine and Maurlee sat in silence. "I represented to him. Would you believe it. The latter. Lautenschlager. was as soft as a pudding before her--of something he had forgotten to do. and as I lay in bed. who was narrating his journey. nothing loath. I saw the luggage with my own eyes. who.' he would not believe you? No. Madeleine was out of humour. so I stop long enough. without spea ing. and had a crease in her forehead. and ma ing effective use of her babyish mouth. she tapped the floor.' Now. which she denounced as antiquated. I sung some--just for fun. He was just tic led to death. opened her mouth.

win ed at his audience. were made at his expense. and was now just about to drop. and he retired red and discomfited to his Place in a corner of the room. there was a unanimous shrie of approval. and it too me some time. who was coming over to be a teacher in a school in Dresden--I have promised to show her our lions when she visits Leipzig: well. with a recurring refrain. . made biting observations on the company's behaviour. "Tom-fool!" she said in a low voice. upon the stool. At this. when some one had the happy idea that Krafft should sing them his newest song. and several hands dragged Krafft to the piano. and yet had been there. He was not allowed to finish the first verse. In a growing desire to be as ed to play. he needed no forcing. Boehmer had for some time hung about the piano." went on the voice on the other side. he turned. melancholy ditty. and only Madeleine was coolly contemptuous. Instead of this. Few of his friends were able to sing them. his hearers hooted. standing jo e. concerning Schils y's powers of sleep. she was quite alarmed the first time he entered in that way. bald and witty. "Put your head in a bag!" "Pity he drin s!"                                 . The end was at hand--an end before there had been any beginning.So this would be the end. a howl of disapproval went up. however. a handsome creature with bold. The general rowdyism was at its height. All three exploded with laughter. Flinging himself down on the seat. laughter ready in their throats. where his companion. the annoyance of the perpetual interruptions. and jests. others too it up. a fixed smile on their faces. prominent eyes." The brea occasioned by the arrival of the beer had been of short duration. "A lady who was travelling in the same compartment--a very pleasant person. a statuesque little English widow. nevertheless. to ma e her believe that this was the German method of revising tic ets. which he had never put into words even to himself. a mass of gloriously vague perhapses. to see if Schils y were not coming. and at this. as I was saying. "Sic cats!" "Damn your 'WENIG SONNE!'"--this was the refrain. one of the girls on the bed. which had never properly existed. related an anecdote to her neighbours. as if by accident. when the cry of: "No Bach!" was raised--Bach was Boehmer's specialty--and re-echoed. and no one but himself could both sing and play them simultaneously: they were a monstrous. But himself the wildest of them all. at the bac of the room. The latter was almost an hour late by now. and made repeated journeys to the stair-head. ". jeered and stamped. some one began to stamp his feet. His hearers sat with their mouths open. and began a slow. Krafft was confidently expected to burst into one of those songs for which he was renowned. . Furst perspired with anxiety. Some one offered to ta e a bet that he had fallen asleep and forgotten the appointment. I assure you. he preluded wildly in imitation of Rubinstein. and the audience was growing impatient. the end of foolish dreams and wea hopes.

The whirlwind of the prelude commenced anew. that is----" The rest was drowned in the wild chromatic passages that Krafft sent up and down the piano with his right hand. with the drip of despair: For me. time did not exist for him. Miss Jensen and her friend made themselves particularly conspicuous. "In C sharp major. however. to the slowly passing harmonies of which. and became a mournful cadence. the two ladies in the front row began to clap their hands. the chords became still vaster. and by a frivolous American. Krafft sang: I am weary of everything that is. if Furst had not come to the rescue and led him to the piano. trees bend. but remained sitting at the piano. He was too good-natured to interrupt them and free himself. who cried: "Now for ALSO SCHRIE ZENOPHOBIA!" Krafft stopped playing."Give us one of the rousers--the rou . there was time to laugh. and clouds sail stormily. "Here he comes!" A sudden silence fell. "Tch!" in disgust. and would have stood as long as they li ed. stopping his BRETZEL half-way to his mouth. the player swayed from side to side. as those whose sense of humour was most highly developed. he li es it. Madeleine said. of which she made no secret. each of which exceeded the octave. but wholly unconcerned at the lateness of the hour: except in matters of practical advancement. I sic en at the long lines of rain. sers!" Krafft himself laughed unbridledly. some bent double in their seats. was heard to say in his tone of measured surprise: "C sharp major! Why. "DAS ICH SPRICHT!"--he announced. As soon as he appeared. burst into peals of laughter. then. Schils y laid his                           . . "And what is worse. she laid her hand caressingly on his coat-sleeve. "Disgusting. . which made him so attractive to women. Mrs Lauterischlager had an infatuation for the young man. Schils y came in. winds must rage. the rest of the company followed their example. which are blac against the s y. wiping down the eys with his hand erchief. Before. under the sun. somewhat embarrassed by the lull which had succeeded the hubbub heard in the passage. and put her face as near his as propriety admitted. the way those women go on with him!" said Madeleine. mopped their faces with gestures of exhaustion. really could not laugh any more. and assured their neighbours that they "could not. this riot ceased. but the rest of the company. for a restless heart. They drip." Schils y listened to the babble of compliments with that mixture of boyish deference and unequivocal superiority. in which Dove. li e a stripling-tree in a storm. who had only waited for this. bro en only by a few hysterical giggles from the ladies." There was a hush of anticipation. while his left followed with full-bodied chords. however. Even Dove smiled. some leant bac with their chins in the air. Just." Furst entered and flapped his hands. in spite of Furst's efforts to prevent it. rose and crowded round him.

Schils y too his seat. and hung upon her companion's nec in an ecstatic attitude. could understand what he said. Through his fingers. no one should. and the slender. I suppose. He had a dozen reasons why he should not sing. "It's perfectly clear to you. and Krafft sprang up in exaggerated surprise. He was nervous. only to struggle with his honest                                                   . It transpired that there was an ode to be sung before the last section of the composition. He had never before had an opportunity of observing Schils y so closely. who was standing morose. Krafft was pulled to the piano. he surreptitiously watched the player.hand affectionately on Krafft's shoulder. they new and cared nothing about Zarathustra and his spiritual development. "Good Heavens. the thic manuscript-score was set up on the music-rac . every one leaned forward to see him better. Krafft flushed. for Krafft had a way of forgetting what he was at in the middle of a page. if Krafft did not sing it. and a debate ensued who. could not read the music from sight. Now. then said suddenly: "Come on. in a loud whisper. losing his nervousness as soon as he touched the eys. and Schils y objected. and. especially the ladies threw themselves into positions from which they could watch hair and hands. at the finish. The listeners in the bedroom----merely caught disjointed words--WERDEGANG. and that was the end of the matter. Heinz. "Isn't he divine?" said the bold-eyed girl on the bed. TARANTELN--but not one was curious enough even to lean forward in his seat. was hoarse. he had a cold. But the latter. should sing it. with a ind of blatant generosity. white hands. Maurice welcomed the continuous sound of the music. and. with his large. But it did not matter in the least. After the diversity of noises which had hitherto interfered with his thin ing connectedly. which went on without a brea . Standing beside the piano. Schils y was silent for a moment. and ill at that. all present had come only to hear the music. tapping his fingers. to a corner. what a fool Heinz is ma ing of himself tonight!" said Madeleine. and he spo e so rapidly and in such a low voice that no one but those immediately in front of him. preluded firmly and easily. Dove sagely wagged his head in agreement. Madeleine made sarcastic inward comments on the behaviour of the party. was out of practice. and withdrew. he now pointed out to himself each physical detail that he found prepossessing in the other. in high dudgeon. cast an angry loo at his friend." she could not refrain from observing as. and the three young men at the piano had a brief disagreement with one another about turning the leaves: Krafft was bent on doing it. did not move. But Schils y thumped his fist on the lid. and said. The two ladies in the front had quite a little quarrel--without nowing anything about the song--as to which of their voices would best suit it. with folded arms. so turned to those about him that the two on the sofa in the next room only saw him sideways. Schils y gave a short description of his wor . which aggravated his lisp. He sat in a listening attitude. every feature that was li ely to attract--in the next breath." and loo ed at Krafft. swaying figure. shading his eyes with his hand. and one and all waited impatiently for Schils y to stop spea ing. The audience too its seats again. NOTSCHREI.

Will tiefe. voice and violins sang it together. Aus tiefem Schlaf bin ich erwacht: Die Welt ist tief. in his sweet. one heard it given out by the bass strings. to a half close. TARANTELN--and here again. the headings of the different sections of the wor : WERDEGANG. Mensch! Gieb Acht! Was spricht die tiefe Mitternacht? "Ich schlief. and Krafft sang. which. Lust--tiefer noch als Herzeleid: As far as this. out of reach. but he was not in a frame of mind to understand or to retain any impression of it. and seemed to be a small. Weh spricht: vergeh! Suddenly and unexpectedly. Schils y inclined his head. struc his ear: this was Furst. caddish fellow. the high little flutes carried it up and beyond. something of Schils y's music. ich schlief. announced from his seat beside Schils y.opinion that the composer was a slippery. a semitone higher. the voice had been supported by simple. in spite of himself. began to sing DAS TRUNKENE LIED. at syncopated intervals. Doch alle Lust will Ewig eit. which was almost a dance-rhythm. the low F in the bass of F minor sounded persistently. flute-li e voice: Oh. who could never be proved to be worthy of Louise. By way of introduction. Und tiefer als der Tag gedacht.                         . but vaguely. to rise to any active feeling of disli e. loose-jointed. But he was too down-hearted at what he had learnt in the course of the evening. frail pleading for something not rightly understood. SCHWERMUT. full-sounding harmonies. Intermittently he heard. as if at a distance. he heard suppressed laughter. from time to time. and the words were sung again to a stern and fateful close in D flat major. pic ing up a sheet of music and coming round to the front of the piano. rose a hesitating theme. SEILTANZER--here Maurice saw Dove conducting with head and hand--NOTSCHREI. from out the depths. in the absence of a programme. then the violas reiterated it. The innocent little theme passed away. there entered a light yet mournful phrase in F major. Now. He was more effectively jer ed out of his preoccupation by single spo en words. which seemed to grope its way: in imagination. still of F minor. Tief ist ihr Weh. who. But he was thoroughly roused when Krafft." --the last phrase of which was repeated by the accompaniment. tiefe Ewig eit. and dyed it purple.

When. as they heard him coming after them. He won't miss ours." said Madeleine." Maurice had had an idea of lingering till everybody else had gone. Then she spo e again. she made a fresh start. What use had he made of the cymbals? She trusted a purely Wagnerian one. Loud cries were uttered and exclamations of enthusiasm. you--when I heard you say 'DU' to Heinz." No. who had assiduously ta en notes throughout. he crashed to a close and wiped his face in exhaustion. Maurice.                                       . "Well. "We should have had nothing but his impressions and opinions all the way home. as you may have observed--or perhaps you haven't. hoppy German. But he was never good at excuses. What on earth is the matter with you?" He feigned. people rose from their seats and crowded round the piano to congratulate the player. "Come. as they emerged. "Do you now--but you're sure not to now that either--you gave me a nasty turn to-night?" "I?" His surprise was genuine this time. and his steps had died away in the street. but while the latter was loo ing for his hat. she drew her companion down still further. Lautenschlager could not desist from issing his hand." she said. gathered them together. Mrs. and her peculiar. let us go. "Quic . on the chance of pic ing up fresh facts.The concluding section of the wor returned to these motives. he exerted himself desperately. Schils y was barely able to cope with the difficulties of the score. and laughed as she spo e. They wal ed another street-length. surprise: and they wal ed in silence down one street and into the next. "He was bottled up from having to eep quiet so long--I saw it in his face." He loo ed at her in astonishment. he had not noticed it. thin Russian girl in spectacles. for information about the orchestration." she said. where they remained hidden until Dove had passed them. but she was not in a hurry to continue. So they slipped out into the passage. and sat himself to answer the question earnestly and at length. and surmounted sheerly unplayable parts with the genial slitheriness that is the privilege of composers. "Yes. rising and sha ing the creases from her s irt. and. Schils y hastened to reopen the score. And I couldn't stand it to-night. Madeleine pulled Maurice down the stairs. "There will be congratulations enough. if you hadn't been so ta en up with yourself. you would have. there was a deafening uproar of applause.     "I thin it's rather hard on me. followed by Dove. I'm in a bad temper. at last. A tall. as ed in a loud voice. to the cellar flight. in complicated thermatic counterpoint. developed them. laboured with his head and his whole body. and all she said was: "How refreshing the air is after those stuffy rooms!" As they turned a corner however. let us go!" she whispered. grouped them and interchanged them.

Maurice Guest. and when he had told her: "And since then?" He went into detail. and when she spo e again. If you were long with Heinz. I suppose. "Believe me." "I daresay I can't. ta e my advice--it's sincerely meant--and steer clear of Heinz. But there must be something about you. Maurice. But that is quite a different matter--quite. that she was going away--as if by repeating the words." "How?" she demanded. The house was dar . Before going home that night. and stood and loo ed up at the closed windows behind which Louise lived. not now. the outer windows. that ma es one want to do it--want to loo after you. and then it would be good-bye to anything you might have done--to wor and success. having to lecture you! The fact is. Only the Venetian blinds seemed to be faintly alive. he might ultimately grow used to their meaning. Well. in spite of oneself. to see how intimate you and Heinz have got. Madeleine. No. "the whole affair came about without any wish of mine. so to spea --as if you couldn't be trusted to ta e care of yourself. Then a new fear beset him. Maurice made the old round by way of the BRUDERSTRASSE. in the nightly silence. There was a breath of autumn in the air. it disturbed me to-night. It's not only that you ought to be above letting yourself be treated in this way. but would remain in Leipzig for a few wee s longer. she abruptly left the subject. He belongs to a bad set here--and Schils y. "But you're fond of him yourself. "And that's all?" "Isn't it enough--for a fellow to go on in that way?" "And you feel aggrieved?" "No. of set purpose?--if these windows were closed for good and all? A dryness invaded his throat at the                                   . too. and we were very thic for a time." "Yes. of course--until Schils y comes bac . for Heinz is an interesting fellow." he added. too. Master Heinz gives you the cold shoulder." Maurice smiled to himself at her womanly idea of Krafft leading him to perdition. but Heinz's friendship won't do you any good. without the resentment he had previously felt towards Krafft." he said." and as if more than enough had now been said. coolly. "You can't help li ing him either. and as still as was the deserted street. Or perhaps you didn't now that Heinz is the attendant spirit of that heaven-born genius?" Maurice did not reply. and a mild wind flapped the blinds. The best that could be hoped for was that she would not go immediately. What if she never came bac again?--if she had left the place quietly. removed for the summer. just as it swayed the tops of the trees in the opposite garden. though. one's METIER clings to one."Here am I again. As soon as he appears on the scene. He told himself aloud." "Is that all? Why on earth should that trouble you? And anyhow. At first I was rather sore. you would be bound to get drawn into it. he is no friend for you. had not yet been replaced. it was with renewed seriousness.

and spent a quarter of an hour pacing her room. no one had hinted by a word at Schils y's departure. she said: "Louise is bac --did you now?" Of course he new. though he did not tell her so-. although the weather was not really cold. "Why. at a window on the same level. and touched her living hand. This meeting. Once again. helped him over the days that followed. of an eternity that was deep and dreamless.possibility. she threw him a loo . the nowledge surged up in him that all he as ed was to be allowed to see her just once more. his daily life grew very unimportant. with whom she had wal ed the FOYER of the theatre. saying that she had something interesting to tell him. the words he had heard Krafft sing. before she had finished ta ing off her wraps. Then. a girl was practising the violin. Maurice went to the window. to carry with him for ever. he must stand face to face with her--must stamp a picture of her on his brain. his throat was dry. things that had hitherto interested him. to the shabby little Englishman. For ever!--And through his feverish sleep ran. In one of the houses opposite.                                                 . and stood with his bac to her. and especially after he had seen Louise. li e a thread. But sometimes. Sometimes. he received a postcard from Madeleine. but she smiled and held out her hand. Schils y is going away. it might yet prove to be all a mista e. and her face rose out of this setting li e a flower from its cup. too. Afterwards. Not many days after this. he came upon Louise herself. and the few cordial words she had spo en. however. When she entered. and paused half-way out of her jac et. he himself was a mere automaton. Nothing more had come to light. then? To-day I am meeting all my friends. He crossed the road to where she was standing in rain-cloa and galoshes. put out on the sill. in a gaudy pin paper. Maurice was about to bow and pass by. too." He nodded. said: "Maurice. at a street-corner.new almost the exact hour at which the blinds had been drawn up. let come what might. Eggis. About to go. while he waited for the blow to fall. and. She wished to tell him that the date of her playing in the ABENDUNTERHALTUNG had been definitely fixed." She had fur about her nec . a joy without beginning or end. I have a piece of news for you. Madeleine had waved her umbrella at him. "You are bac . he wondered whether he were not perhaps tormenting himself unnecessarily. and a flower-pot. He went too early. now went past li e shadows. the windows opened. his eyes followed the mechanical movements of the bow. you don't mean to say you new?" she cried. and on the top of this evening of almost apathetic resignation to the inevitable. She was standing tal ing.

Avery put an extra plate on the table. when. He found him at supper." It sounded as if another than he had said the words: they were so short and harsh. and." It was Avery who spo e. Louise won't stay here a day longer than he does. noc ing over his chair." But otherwise she new no more than Maurice. Schils y. as ed abruptly: "When does he go?" "Go?--who?" said Krafft indifferently. Krafft greeted Maurice with a touch of his former effusiveness. at this critic's expense. especially in people whom she believed she new inside out. Krafft stood hesitating." Krafft laughed. Maurice laid down his nife. methodical fingers. of encouraging him. do you thin ?----" Madeleine understood him. he climbed the stairs that led to Krafft's lodging. Yes. At his order. But with his                                                                     .He cleared his throat. tic ling Wotan's nose with a piece of s in which he held out of reach. without thin ing more about it than if he had been there the day before. and Maurice had to share their meal. and she did not offer to detain him." He rose from the table. it is true. and showed it. The plate Avery was holding fell to the floor. Then you didn't now?" said Maurice. for no one has loved him as I have. and it now turned out that not only had he nown it all the time. who had most right to now. and on the table sat Wotan. Madeleine was annoyed. It seemed that one of the masters in the Conservatorium had expressed a very unequivocal opinion of Schils y's talents as a composer." he repeated. "Do you--Is it li ely--I mean. too. Now that the pledge of secrecy had been removed from him. "Every one. I'm sure of that. "You new he was going away?--or didn't you?" as ed Maurice in a rough voice. who was being regaled with strips of s in off the sausage. yes--every one but me. a few minutes later. and made all preparations for playing. bewildered by the outburst he had evo ed. It was not hard for him to lead Krafft round to the desired subject. and discussing the matter sympathetically. Avery was present. and. Every one but me. opened it. and needed an audience. "Who?--why. in the first brea . "The whole place nows: every one nows. and Krafft was now sarcastic. for he was in a tal ative mood. we didn't now. I do. Krafft sat bac in his chair. of course. "Every one nows. with a face that was all eyes. Then he went to the piano. Maurice felt that he wanted facts. adjusted the seat. she had come in with the intention of being ind to him. "Yes. I alone had the right. She was on her nees. and stared at Maurice. "Or else it is not true?" "Yes. but had also ept it a secret from her. pic ing up the pieces of the plate with slow. he alleged a pressing appointment. The whole place nows. She did not li e underhand ways. now merry. "No.

XIV. a melancholy wind. at a restaurant in the town. as the latter left the Conservatorium. I was."       Whistling to him to stop. It's deuced hard on him that it should have lea ed out at all. Maurice replied evasively. you must be sure and join us to-night. Maurice wal ed to the shelter of the trees. on catching up with him. Overhead. "When does he go?" he as ed. you won't pass it on. before which. it was a blowy day. without any show of concern. he seemed destitute of feeling.fingers ready on the eys. he turned into the path that led to the woods. "To-morrow morning early. Then he bluffly alleged an errand in the PLAGWITZERSTRASSE. he had felt so intensely in the course of the past wee that. by the first train. he bent his head. laid his arms on the folded rac and his head on his arms." Now to be rid of him! But it was never easy to get away from Furst. I don't now how it happened. tra-la-la!"--he win ed. Furst ran the length of a street-bloc Maurice. as good as impossible. and nudged Maurice with his elbow--"for not wanting it to get about. As soon as Furst was out of sight. now the crisis was there." he said breathlessly. the s y was a monotonous grey expanse. who. They stood at the corner of the WACHTERSTRASSE. With his music under his arm. instead. with his eyes on the unbound volume of Beethoven that Furst was carrying. and went off in an opposite direction to that which his companion had to ta e. and dried his nec and face. and since Maurice had declared his intention of continuing to ta e lessons from him. he changed his mind and. Guest. and on this particular occasion. its tattered edges moved in the wind. Furst was overpowering in his friendliness. It was a wind that seemed heavy with unfallen rain. I just wanted to tell you. as the day itself was melancholy. washed the white fur of his belly with an audible swish. there was no escape for Maurice before he had promised to ma e one of the party that was to meet that night. and a soft. "Loo here. for he has his reasons--family or domestic reasons. We are going to give Schils y a jolly send-off. I don't mind telling you. he was perspiring from his run. a ind of numbness came over him. and dropped his voice. sitting on his haunches on a corner of the table. moist wind drove in gusts. on the open meadow-land.                         after       . and a long silence followed.   "I say. and cloying mildness. loo here. The only sound that was to be heard came from Wotan. if one may say so. And when does he go?" repeated his hearer with the same want of interest. Guest." he said. Furst loo ed warily round him. He did not stir again. 'pon my honour." "Yes. Now that he had learnt the worst. "Well. "I don't mind telling you. for I was mum. in its faded colours.

and here he remained. white face. could not right himself again? He believed that the slac ening interest. by tomorrow. and miserable outsider? No. in place of passing on to his real preoccupation. with his head in his hands. on loo ing into the future. Was it. his mind began to wor again. the inability to fix his attention. he remembered the brilliant colouring of the April day. With a sudden vividness. Now. And because. notwithstanding the wretchedness of the past days. he suffered. must have some such deeper significance. then. irrecoverable. he saw himself as he had wal ed these very woods. brooding over the change that had come about in him. it was beyond mortal's power to prevent it. But gradually overcoming this physical dullness. but as on something done with. with a path leading up to the doorway. all would go well. . It was too absurd to be credible that because a slender. and the abundance of energy that had possessed him. But he was loath to begin. success was a word li e any other. as it seemed in this case. and left him cold. And if. and. and listened to the soothing noise it made. made for daylight and the sun. all his thoughts had been of strenuous endeavour and success. he as ed himself. because he had so little whole-hearted endurance. the leap over. Then he would apply himself to his wor with all his heart. let the coming day once be past. To his mind. he was as far off as ever from understanding. torturous way? Would he always have been content to be third party. what was worse. he now called himself hard names. regretfully no doubt. love was something fran and beautiful. daily life. he would be able to loo bac . that. for his whole nature--the inherited common sense of generations--rebelled against tracing it bac to the day on which he had seen a certain face for the first time. he would have laughed at the suggestion that this was love. there was something indelicate about it. for. he considered this. once and for all. to love. whereas his condition was a source of mortification to him.His feet bore him mechanically to his favourite seat. then the only fitting thing to do was promptly to ma e an end. let a very few wee s have run their course. but it did not--should not--happen in sober. the best that could happen to him was now happening. without any possible hope of return. What had he expected? Had he really believed that matters could always dally on. nowing that the person you loved regarded you with less than indifference. which perpetually fanned his unrest. which he had had to fight against of late. He felt the wind in his hair. And yet . calmly. over the approach of this end. It was the ind of thing that it suited poets to ma e tragedies of. that grasp slac ened? Was it that he was able to ma e the effort required for a leap. and at this he gazed. his eyes fixed on the trodden gravel of the path. Then. . did he close his eyes and let her face rise up before him--her sweet. his life should thus lose form and purpose--incredible and unnatural as well--and. and it would be possible to thin of her. in his present mood. seven months before. dar -eyed girl had suddenly come within his range of vision. and the parting would have lost its sting. He had to learn.                                             . that this person was passionately attached to another man--no. estimating the crude architectural ideas that had occurred to the childish builders. and remember her. in this pleasant. with the unfathomable eyes. high above his head. he sat in a ind of torpor. everything would be over. conscious only of the objects his eyes rested on: some children had built a ma e-believe house of pebbles. that when once a thing was within his grasp. at which his blood revolted. and pale. To love. For a long time. If once an end were put to these daily chances of seeing her.

had had upon him. considerably after his usual dinner-hour. or as if the sound of it might somehow bring him aid: he inwardly implored whatever fate was above him to give him the one small chance he as ed--the chance of fair play. and wild schemes flitted through his mind. his nature clamoured for her. A fear lest she should have already gone away. in the shadow of a neighbouring doorway. an exclamation rose to his lips. he loo ed at familiar objects with unseeing eyes. pealed through the house. He was not conscious of hunger. with his arm on the lid of the piano. and his foot was on the lowest stair. and giving her hand and her smile to other people. if anyone loo ed curiously at him. in order to avoid ma ing himself conspicuous. meant that the grip life had of him would relax--he grew sic even at the thought of how. and ta ing up his hat. and so. from the first day on: a tightening of all centres. And in this moment. It was not love. he went boldly up the broad. winding stair and rang the bell. or in those streets she would be li ely to pass through. she would go on living. but going into the itchen begged for a cup of the coffee that could be smelt brewing on Frau Krause's stove. on some pretext or other. He had no concern with anyone but her--her only--and he could not let her go. as if he were in bodily pain. he had done no wor . It was not love. The bell. he could not bear much longer the uncertainty he was in. and was pric ed by compunction at the thought that. putting on a hurried air. Gradually. There was no immediate answering sound. except for a few scales run hastily that morning. but not a trace of her had he seen. and ring the door-bell. And he said her name aloud to himself. while he would never see her again. without his nowing it.sensuous mouth--he was sha en by an emotion that noc ed his resolutions as flat as a breath noc s a house of cards. that there should be a part of himself over which he had no control. But while he still stood. the grey afternoon wore to a close. What was he thin ing of? If he wished to see Louise once more. towards seven o'cloc . in the midst of strangers. sometimes including a side street. He had paced to and fro for an hour now. and out into the street. When. he confessed to himself that he would have been over-happy to live on just as he had been doing. as it clamoured for light and air. and got the upper hand of him. When he had drun this. he was bac in his room. and. and as intense a despair. and he turned bac . He wal ed up and down before the house in the BRUDERSTRASSE. it was a bodily wea ness. nor did even a light burn in her room when dar ness fell. in some un nown place. a veil seemed to lift from his brain. beset him again. as he had never felt the need of anyone before. when he had hung about for three hours. and having waited                                                         . which he had pulled hard. a pitiable infirmity: he even felt it degrading that another person should be able to exercise such an influence over him. Not to see her. jangled on. his place was under her windows. a heightening of all faculties. an intense hope. lingering for a quarter of an hour on end. if only sometimes he might see her. to learn whether she was still there. when his courage failed him. in a series of after-tin les. the silence persisted. not to be able to gather fresh strength from each chance meeting. But the idea had ta en root. nor anything to do with love. he went down the stairs again. he would find something to say. He would mount the stairs. this he could have sworn to: it was merely the strange physical effect her presence. When the door was opened. The morning passed. He needed her. yet too quic ly. imperiously. and there was still no sign of life in her room. he opened and read a letter from home. or the remembrance of her presence. died away.

." Furst. she drew bac . And this feeling grew upon him with such                                 . to have his thoughts diverted into other channels. He was tired to exhaustion. it promised to be a wet night. when a feeling of nausea seized him. "I have something important to do this evening. when he heard where Maurice was going. "Then she is still here? Has she gone out? When will she be bac ?" he queried. young man. and too up anew his position in the dar doorway--a proceeding which did not reassure Fraulein Grunhut. and rose. as a result of poring over newspapers. Then. he was drowsy from having eaten. she lived in continual expectation of robbery and murder. a fine rain was beginning to fall. who was in capital spirits at the prospect of the evening. was watching his movements from between the slats of a window-blind. and a little old woman peered out. anyhow. cautious footsteps crept along the passage. But Maurice thrust in his hand. in answer to the young man's question. But Maurice had not stood again for more than a quarter of an hour. and again was about to close the window. who. . the type of rubicund good-humour. regarding his inquiries as a feint. loo here!. There was no visible change in the windows of the BRUDERSTRASSE." he said. they were as blan ly dar as before. it seemed impossible to endure the crawling past of still more hours. "How should I now? And loo here. and slapped his fat thigh. "She is not at home. to be ta en out of himself. he rang again." Maurice heard him expostulate as the outer door slammed behind him. Guest. if you don't ta e away your hand and leave the house at once.for some time. he ate avidly. but more languidly. he did not notice his companion's abstraction. a light moved. Hardly troubling to dissemble. in the distance. and as he was not of an observant turn of mind. and as soon as he had finished. and can't join you." He went slowly down the stairs and across the street. strong desire arose in him. told witty anecdotes. soft. The wind had dropped. and made as if to shut the window. cut short in the middle of a sentence. If he meant to hold out. Maurice paid scant attention to Furst's tal . afterwards. In front of the PANORAMA on the ROSSPLATZ. "I must go. Maurice resumed his patrollings. he would return and wait. pushed bac his chair and called to the waiter for his bill. On seeing the pale face close before her. and drin a SCHNITT. holding a candle above her head. for. and the latter. "But I say. laughed heartily. if he had to wait all night. somehow. A wea ness overcame him at the thought of the night-watch he had set himself. I shall call from the window for a policeman. of empty streets and glistening pavements. had nothing better to do than to accompany him. Furst. and gazed open-mouthed at his companion. He made haste to retrace his steps. he heard a door crea ." she said with tremulous bravado. let his double chin fall on his collar. he ran into the arms of Furst. Turning up his coat-collar. and the air was chill. the glass window in the upper half of the door was opened. and this reminded him that he had practically eaten nothing since the morning. and she could not shut without crushing it. and a sudden. he must snatch a bite of food somewhere.

He was roused by the entrance of a noisy party of three. a stifled laugh went round. leaned over the counter and tal ed to the BUFFETDAME. he might not be proud to claim having. a stout. close behind them still another group. and was only there because he believed the present to be an exceptional occasion: who new but what. his face painted and pencilled li e a woman's. where the KNEIPE was to be held. became so intolerable. for another hour. with prominent jet-blac eyes and huge white teeth. closed his eyes. A genial warmth ran through him and his nausea ceased. next Maurice. old-fashioned overcoat. The latter was. he was grumpy at the other's behaviour. returning to the public room. soothed by the heat of the room. and. animated man. an Italian. Scanning him furtively. he concluded that Maurice had been drin ing. They were followed by a couple of men nown to Maurice by sight. The majority of the guests present were not particular who paid for their drin . One. and sat down before a long. Maurice dran the contents of one and then another of the tiny glasses. on his fingers were numerous rings. with both of whom he was on very friendly terms. In the thic -sown. he was not partial to this ind of thing. provided they got it. they sat down at the other end of the table and tal ed among themselves. spread with a soiled red and blue-chec ed tablecloth. the BRUHL. Next came a couple of Americans. only afraid lest Furst should have gone without him." said Maurice. which were out of all proportion to the delicate build of his instrument. they entered a dingy cafe and while Furst chattered with the landlord and BUFFETDAME. that he forgot everything else. To judge from his                                       . in consequence of the difficulty of beating up a round dozen of men. in fact. to have recourse to bribes and promises. He leaned his head on his hands. and turned and ran bac towards the PANORAMA. The waiter came with the liqueur-bottle. the idea of remaining where he was. his bushy hair was scented and thic ly curled. mentioned at once that. narrow table. in a tone which had nothing in common with Furst's hearty familiarity. Dove. but. Furst had been forced to be very pressing in his invitations. and. The latter entered the room with an apologetic air. and a violinist of repute. to stimulating the imagination. notwithstanding the size and fleshiness of his hands. he sent the lad to the devil for a cognac. just coming out of the door. in after years. or. self-assertive. at heart. He did not sit down. At Krafft's entry. Maurice went into the side-room. excited manner. "Shall we go? Where's the place?" Furst mumbled something inaudible. business thoroughfare. had a few moments' pleasant lapse of consciousness. The other was a slender youth of fantastic appearance. loud. These were strangers to him. and when they had mentioned their names and learned his. "I've changed my mind. careless of dress and convention. as in the case of Dove. and noting his odd. was a fellow-pupil of Schils y's. They wal ed without spea ing. and was moulded to a shapely waist. without apology.force. He felt cold and sic again. which reached to his heels. and when the wan PICCOLO set a beer-mat before him. and on sitting down at the head of the table. He stared in astonishment at Maurice. Furst hummed to himself. made one of the party on this particular evening?--the plain truth being that Schils y was little popular with his own sex. He wore a long. and at its heels.

He entered. and the mirth these anecdotes provo ed was more than ordinarily uproarious. and staggered about. containing bones. and to hang the coat in a draughty place to air. presently. and did not seem to see what they rested on. but no one protested. The next moment. the pianist. top-heavy. They were now all collected but Schils y. To the PICCOLO he tossed coat and hat. struc his glass. summoned by a general shout. however. and much beer had been drun . Various epithets were hurled at Krafft. evidently some days old. Meanwhile. which he had worn turned up at the nec . Then he let his loose-limbed body down on the vacant chair. several men spo e at once: Furst continued a story he was telling. inclined in the first moment of rebuff to be touchy. he rose to his feet. letting his sullen mouth hang. Schils y's voice was heard in the next room. The only answer Schils y gave was a muttered request to cease ma ing an idiot of himself. and Furst. and dran off the glass of PILSENER that was set before him. and the spirits of those--there were several such present--who suffered almost physical pain from seeing another than themselves the centre of interest. and tapping the table with his fingers. who said in English: "Speesch? Call that a speesch?" Furst. he emptied one glass of beer after another. as if what went on around him had nothing to do with him. it was seen that he had either lost or forgotten his collar. allowed his natural goodness of heart to prevail.appearance. Significant glances flew round the table: for the young man's outbursts of temper were well nown to all. Krafft awa ened from his apparent stupor to say with extreme distinctness: "I'll tell you. was bade to dispose of the garbage instantly. not without pathos: "Old man. it snarled at a waiter. The PICCOLO could hardly cope with the demands that were made on him. it made those present less sensitive to the mood of the guest of honour. but he had not been many minutes in the room before a stronger and more penetrating smell made itself felt. There was a pause of embarrassment. A strong odour of brandy went out from him. who. Schils y sat silent. His wal was steady. Furst was in his usual state of agitation lest his friend should forget to eep the appointment. But at this juncture. went up by leaps and bounds. There's been the devil                                                 . some one else capped it. The rest of the company began to sniff and ejaculate. except Ford." Before Schils y could reply. So. and rancid fish. and when he too off his coat. ma ing no response to the greetings that were offered him. with his load of glasses. Tell us what it is. scraps of decaying meat. This was going rather too far. He leaned forward. and said. But it was impossible to let the evening pass as flatly as this. we are all your friends here. It was raised and angry. sat pic ing his teeth with unconcern. Shirt and waistcoat were insufficiently buttoned. Something's the matter. displaying his anger with genial indifference to what others thought of him. held a flowery speech about his departing friend. however. but his eyes had a glassy stare. Furst was a born spea er. and his heart was full. besides. and swore at the boy for not catching them. and. having trac ed it to the corner where the overcoats hung. drew out of one of Krafft's poc ets a greasy newspaper parcel. his hands and face were dirty. The PICCOLO. in spite of Schils y's deepening scowl. he had not been in bed the previous night: sleep seemed to hang on his red and sun en eyelids. as the general hilarity increased.

So far." Krafft laughed--that is to say." "Now. and he had sense enough to find the proximity of Ford disagreeable. stri ing the table. but the words seemed to be bandied at an immeasurable distance from him. with the mouth and chin of a Methodist. forget it matter? To-morrow you'll be miles that Schils y would continue. "If they'd only give one the chance. a round of SCHNAPS!" "Shut up. Krafft awo e to his surroundings again. distinctly. him on the bac ." "It'll all come out in the wash. he began to commiserate himself. and hindered him from thin ing connectedly. Across the raging main---"That's easily said!" Schils y threw a dar loo round the table. that's to' bad!" cried one of the Americans--a lean man. But Schils y. Heinz!" cried Schils y. and would have felt li e a god loo ing on at the doings of an infinitesimal world.         All ept silence now. why don't you eep clear of them?" Schils y laughed. "By those who haven't been through it. in the hope did not. Damn them all!--old and young----I say. Waiter. clapped for to-night. without raising his heavy eyes. and half over his neighbour. say. As he in his role of peacema er. but sat brooding. had it not been for a wheel which revolved in his head. and held out the glass to be refilled. "Well. who forthwith tried to sing: I'm off by the morning train. This struc a reminiscence in Ford. I wish a plague would sweep every woman off the earth!" "The deuce. What he says is the truth--gospel truth. said slowly and thic ly: "Let him be. old man! What does it away. He remained quite undisturbed. a cac le of laughter issued from his mouth. Maurice heard everything that passed. a man could lead a quiet life. If it weren't for them." "Oh. I have. chuc it. Krafft!" cried one or two. for the latter spilt half the liquor he tried to swallow over himself. His anger fell still more. "He shall tell us about it."                                             . drin ing had brought him no pleasure. whose anger had begun to subside under the influence of the two litres he had drun . Furst. He swallowed his brandy at a gulp. On its subsidence. "What has the old woman given you?" he as ed. A fresh imprecation of Schils y's called forth more laughter. with his strange precision of speech and his drun en eyes. "Damn you. "By Hell. not without alarm at the turn things might ta e." consoled the American. And I'd rather have lost a hand. while his glazed eyes stared idiotically. Krafft!" said Furst uneasily.to pay.

No more for me!--if my name's what it is. why jealous? The old scarecrow! She hasn't an ounce of flesh to her bones. "JAWOHL--but on what condition?" "Heinz. Three of 'em. the more he was carried away by his grievances. the bitch!" he cried. at my heels. "What's three? Go and try it. I said. all he had as ed for. if you want to now. gee-henna!" "Golly for her!" "DREI TAUSEND MARK!--ALLE EHRE!" Again Krafft leaned forward with a maudlin laugh. nor the last six months either! It's been a hell of a life.Schils y struc the table with his fist. But I'm done now. Again Furst strove to intercede. had been peace and quiet--the peace necessary to important wor . For. refused to answer. tipsy disgust. he assured his hearers. "Oh. Month?--no. gee. "Jesus and                                             . go on!" But Schils y. you scoundrel." On all sides the exclamations flew. with heated fluency. Schils y loo ed as blac as thunder. turned sullen again. the old louse made conditions. "Much you now about it." Having once bro en through his reserve. "She gave him three thousand mar s. you ferret out things li e a pig's snout. you pap-sodden suc ling! Three. I wouldn't go through the last month again for all you could offer me. did she?" "Is she jealous?" There was another roar at this. you!" Krafft put his hand to the side of his mouth. "Loo at him!--shamming drun . whole damned three. Schils y turned on him. and the longer he spo e." said Furst with an exaggerated. "Never mind him. "What. he tal ed on. and each ready to tear the others' eyes out. she's as troublesome as the plumpest. and they've ended by ma ing the place too hot to hold me." Schils y laughed. "Out with it then. "Jealous?--in seven devils' name. you fool! Flesh or no flesh." "Three! Hullo!" "Three? Bah!--what's three?" sneered the painted youth. Krafft!--you now. he don't count. How much did she give you?" "Oh.

hastened to lay their faces in seemly folds. Would anyone else have done as much for his girl? He made bold to doubt it. boys. a chorus of sympathetic ayes went up from the party that was drin ing at his expense. with tears in his eyes. I was afraid she'd get round me. Mollified. why shouldn't I confess it? You're all my friends here. but she wouldn't have let me go. "And shall I tell you what my reward has been for not going? Do you want to now how Lulu has treated me for staying on here? 'You are a quarter of an hour late: where have you been? You've only written two bars since I saw you this morning: what have you been doing? A letter has come in a strange writing: who is it from? You've put on another tie: who have you been to see?' HIMMELSAKRAMENT!" He drained his glass. and I've always done my best by her--is there anyone here who wants to say I haven't?" There was none. and then my chance was gone. "I'm afraid of Lulu." "Oh. and those who had their muscles sufficiently under control. way to avoid causing Lulu pain. "Exactly! And so. I tell you--of a dog! There's not been a moment in the day when she hasn't spied on me. Schils y's mood changed. You never now how a woman of that type'll brea out--never!" "But she didn't!" said Krafft. and to declare. She might have shot me. Let those present remember what he had sacrificed only that summer for Lulu's sa e. "Call him a liar!" said a voice. asserting vehemently that he would have gone miles out of his. gentlemen he was now for slin ing off without a word to her. however. "Lulu is Lulu." He dropped his voice. "You live. yes." But he had yielded to her often enough--too often--as it was. Over every trifle she has got up a fresh scene. and made me ridiculous. "some dirty brute had nothing better to do than to tell her. I would have done it gladly if I could--isn't that just what I've been saying? Lulu would have got over it all the quic er alone. and followed me. when she new I wasn't at home."                                     . that he could teach him no more--could he afford to treat a matter li e that with indifference? Had he really been free to ma e a choice? Again he loo ed round the table with emphasis. PFUI!" spat the American. the time had come for him to ma e a stand." Schils y understood him. "Why liar? I don't deny it. "Liar?" repeated Schils y dramatically. "Some brute. She's even gone so far as to come to my room and search my poc ets. boys." sneered Krafft. And then." "Yes. he proceeded. Then. it was not his intention to put any of the blame on Lulu's shoulders: she couldn't help herself. "I've had the life of a dog." he cried savagely. "I'm a soft-hearted fool--I admit it!--where a woman is concerned. I'm damned fond of Lulu. he struc the table so that the glasses danced. For a man li e Zeppelin to come to him.Mary! Are a fellow's chief obligations not his obligations to himself?" At the same time.

did the little one. and that he ought to interfere and put his foot down. boys! Touch the plum--and off it tumbles! As pretty a little thing. a what do you call it ?--a . . Most of those present were in ecstasies at this divulging of his private life. childish sex--with no in ling of higher things. according to him. I was mum. his voice droned on. his mood veered round again to one of bitter resentment. which went forward to the accompaniment of snores from Ford. and laughed long to himself. he made a violent effort. he suddenly drew himself up. !" He grew fran er.                                                 . holding on to the table with both hands. boys--I'd advise you!" At this point. dar scratch on the side of his nec . For some time past. He grew momentarily opener. and besides this. house in New Yor . But Schils y did not hear him. "It wasn't me. however. Meg . ha!" laughed the painted boy. . His hands had grown cold. he had himself no notion what it was that he really wanted to say. but immediately afterwards. For. the lean American loo ed grave. "A woman has no gratitude. giving the full particulars of this particular case. "A . "What a time I've been through with her this afternoon!" He threatened to be overcome by the recollection. and fell to remembering it. "It is a wea . he seemed to be rather proud of it. "The perpetual struggle between duty and inclination for a man of genius ." he asserted. the first strophe of THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. and gave gratuitous details of the scene that had ta en place in his room that afternoon. but little drun en gulps and hiccups. with portentous gravity. however. . "A fury!" said Schils y. . you. 'Pon my honour. and the infinite pains he had been at to eep Louise in ignorance of what was happening. the story of his flirtation with Ephie. To illustrate the injustice she had been guilty of. "One no sooner out of the door than the other was in. at length. came. . he pulled bac his collar. and drew his hand erchief from his poc et. but Lulu nows how! Keep clear of her nails." Here. "What the deuce was I to do? Chuc ed herself full at my head. "Life is very hard!" he cried. too. sang over and over again."Ha. who. . and supported his head on his hands. he related. and exhibited a long. money IN HULLE UND FULLE!" At the mention of New Yor . and rose to his feet. He could not. "A little remembrance she gave me to ta e away with me!" While he displayed it. "Loo here." he murmured. Furst blew his nose. No invitation necessary--a ripe plum. . however. as ever was made! Had everything arranged by the second meeting. in a loud voice. and his own long-suffering. the whole affair had come about without any assistance of his. and the voice of Dove. . But the first mention of Ephie's name seemed to put new strength into him." "My God!" said Schils y. don't thin you're the whole shoot because you've got a wave in your hair!" he murmured in English. and he sat vainly trying to spea : nothing. He grew very tender with himself as he told it. Maurice had been possessed by the idea that what was happening concerned him very nearly. Papa to set us up. a Meg--" He gave it up and went on: "By God. I was. no one too any notice of him. ha. manage to attract attention.

a ind of primitive hatred. I----" Schils y sprang to his feet and aimed the contents of a half-emptied glass at Maurice's face. the beer dripping from chin. He ic ed bac his chair. his voice hus y. "It's a lie--a dirty lie!" he cried. and he flapped his arms with meaningless gestures. though he did not in the least understand how it applied to the situation. "I'll teach you to mix your dirty self in my affairs!" Every one jumped up. Forthwith he began a lengthy defence of himself. struggled furiously with some one who held him bac . his words came thic and incoherent. you double-barrelled ass!" said the American. bro en only by gaps in which his brain refused to wor . with such emphasis that every face was turned to him. "A damned lie!" "A lie? What the devil do you mean?" responded not one but many voices--the whole table seemed to be as ing him. could not chec himself. he's drun .nown line of poetry. quit it. He doesn't now what he's saying--He's got rats in his head!" he heard voices asserting. herself. . A passionate rebellion. after Furst's gurgled account of Maurice's previous insobriety. The blood rushed to Maurice's head at the sound of this voice which he could neither curb nor understand. he bawled more and more loudly. I swear . even though he could not catch the drift of what was said. Schils y was still relating: his face was dar ly red. collar and shirt-front. "Get out!--Let him alone. till some one called out: "Oh. Rage mastered him--a vehement desire to be quits. Schils y.                                                   . and. stop your blasted rot!" He laughed hoarsely at this. said so . Maurice. reasoning with him with more force than coherence."And drowns his sorrows in the convivial glass!" he suddenly shouted in English. and when Schils y paused for breath. . . I heard her . and roc ed to and fro. . at the top of his voice. . you blasted spy!--you Englishman!" he spluttered. he could contain himself no longer. he continued to repeat it. how unhappy you ma e her! You illtreat her. with the exception of Dove. who sang on in an ever decreasing tempo. Furst and another man restrained Schils y by the arms. persuaded by those next him to let the incident pass unnoticed. with varying shades of fervour. and proceeded as dominatingly as before with the narration of his love-affairs. Conscious that no one was listening to him. S . He felt the burning need of contradicting the spea er. simultaneously two waiters entered the room. . across the floor behind him. to express his contempt.     His voice turned to a whine. . and was so exhausted when he had finished that it too him some time to remember why he was on his feet. "It's a lie!" he cried fiercely. "Oh. "Ta e that. as if they had not been unprepared for something of this ind. which he had found. contented himself with a: "VERFLUCHTE SCHWEINEREI!" spat. . there was noise and confusion. He had a vague belief that he was quoting a well. You've never given her a day's happiness. gripped Maurice. "You ma e her unhappy--God.

however. and. and the collarless shirt exposed the whole of his white throat."Let me get at him--let me get at him!" he cried. the more sober of the party had begun to see out their hats and to slin away. and those who were left lurched out in his wa e. you drun en hog? Well. "Do you see that? That's a ey. with that ey. Schils y finally allowed himself to be dragged off. With their exit an abrupt silence fell. These persuasions prevailed. he was ready at any time to sta e his life for him. I can go there now. . and it                                                                       . overpowered by his feelings. the AAS. "What the hell does he mean by it?--the INFAME SCHUFT. from under the table. A little group round Schils y blarneyed and expostulated. hung his head far bac . fumbled in his poc et. isn't it. The snea --the cur--the filthy cad! He's not fit to touch her hand--her beautiful hand--her beau . to show whether or no he had the power over her he boasted of. . the friend of his bosom. . if there isn't another of you as well!" and. brandished a ey across the table. "It's past time. and threatening. almost inarticulate with rage and liquor. and Maurice san into a heavy sleep. "I'll brea his bones!" raved Schils y. you infernal spy? Turn me out?--she'd go down on her nees here before you all to get me bac to her!" Unwilling to be involved in the brawl. and now he was not to be allowed even to see him home. I can let myself into Lulu's room at any hour I want to. the waiter turned out all the gas-jets but one. they would go on to the BAYRISCHE BAHNHOF. up with you!--get along!" some one was shouting in his ear. still swearing. a pasty-faced waiter entered his field of view. They would clear out. the man scratched his head and called a comrade. Maurice was comparatively steady on his legs. in which he saw flowery meadows and heard a gently tric ling broo . and. he drew out a recumbent body. does he?--What in Jesus' name is it to him how I treat her? I'll ta e a stic to her if I li e--it's none of his blasted business! Loo here. . The waiter hustled them about. do you see that?" He freed one hand. and wind up the night at the BAUER. Maurice then saw that he was still in the company of Dove. propped on a chair. . the dirty ENGLANDER! Thin s he'll snea after her himself. At the mention of a drosch e. . "I'll teach him to treat a woman as he does. and it was found that Dove could wal . but could also see Schils y off by a train soon after five. . and promising. damn me. by the hair of her head if necessary. bit by bit. to bring Lulu there. he san on a chair and wept. Why should the whole sport of the evening be spoilt in this fashion? What did it matter what the damned cran y Englishman said? Let him be left to his swilling. Maurice all but wept anew with ire and emotion: this was his dearest friend. "Don't yer hear? Up with you! You'll have to loo after the other--now. this very minute. Krafft." and yawning loudly. A difficulty arose about Maurice's hat: he was convinced that the one the waiter jammed so rudely on his head did not belong to him. when that shut. by all that was holy. if I li e--do you thin she'll turn me out. and. who sat staring into space--li e a dead man. But over Krafft. where they could not only get coffee. anyhow. ti . ful----" Here. and at four. "Now then. as much as by superior strength.

goaded to desperation.seemed as if nothing in the world had ever mattered so much to him as now getting bac his own hat. Dove was gone. not only was he unclear what locality they were in. had ideas of his own. and suddenly. He chuc led anew at the thought that somehow or other they had managed to outwit him. and.                                             . and when he wa ened. he poured out a glass of water. he tried again and again. without any transition. before he had finished. "You drun en SCHWEIN. and asserted the fact so violently that a window in the first storey was opened and a head thrust out. enough came in from a street-lamp for him to see what he was doing. and Maurice suddenly grasped that he was ta en ill. Dove. He made a few ineffectual efforts to free himself. I'll do yees no harm. He did not attempt to ma e a light. drun en idiot!" Then. Then the wall of a house rose appositely and met them. Maurice propped his companion against the wall. his best friend. They leaned against it. they had to charge an advertisement-column two or three times before they could get round it. but one arm held him li e a vice. "What in the name of Heaven are you doing down there?" it cried. the man lost patience. put up his arms and dragged Maurice down. he himself lapsed into semi-consciousness. He was afraid Frau Schulz would come in. and Maurice threw the hat from him and trampled on it. beastly drun !" Krafft would not drin the water. he got Heinz on the sofa. the three of them were in the street. in addition to this. can't you see the door's open?" In the sitting-room. but innumerable lifeless things confronted them and formed obstacles to their progress. the ey would not fit. The perspiration stood out on his forehead. but the door before which they ultimately found themselves was Krafft's. Heinz was ill. he's dead drun . and said in a loud voice: "It's that fellow there. thought the eyhole was dodging him. both fell heavily over a chair. chuc ling at the idea that he was revenging himself on the waiter. especially with Dove. Lying on his face. he could not find the door. they gasped and cho ed a little. with infinite labour. "You beastly. His intention had been to ma e for home. but it dropped with a crash to the floor. and in the attempt to force him. He stirred uneasily. blathering. grown loud and wilful. sang the whole time with drun en gravity: Sez the ragman. for a street-length. For while Heinz let himself be lugged this way and that. Heinz. He believed he was putting the carafe safely bac on the table. It was a journey of difficulties. so that the latter fell on his nees beside the sofa. But he had not sufficient fluency to explain all he meant. Krafft groaned a little. "Stop it. after that. and searched his own poc ets for a ey. you oaf!" cried Maurice. Maurice grew excessively angry. and in this uncomfortable position. and he was doing nothing to help him! Shedding tears. he went to sleep. to the bagman. it was spilled over him. and when this was secured. When he had found one. The raw night air gave them a shoc .

But he still could not call to mind what had occurred. Maurice's eyes ached. he now boldly went to her with a request to warm up his coffee. fell into a sound sleep. she wrote. he must have slept a dead sleep. and his mind strove to pierce the significance of the words. He could not remember how he had come there. It was a bright. "Ill? Brain fever?" he repeated to himself. unopened bed. and he shran from the wind at every corner. Since getting home. He read the words mechanically. e dilettoso male! PETRARCH. without ta ing in their meaning. From the paper. and went out at once. the blind at the head of it had not been drawn up. the traces of his boots on the coverings. but it was too late. the master's door was loc ed. The previous evening was blurred in its details. She had evidently been away since early morning. but this was out of the question. cold day with strong sunlight. his head on his arms. he only had a sense of oppression when he thought of it. in what seemed to be still the middle of the night. LOUISE IS VERY ILL. It was a pleasant dus . in spite of his anxiety. It was three o'cloc . The following morning. his eyes roved round the room. he felt considerably better. from which he had just risen. She came                       . the piano was dusty and unopened. though he seldom braved Frau Krause. He was glad to have a definite tas before him. and bathed his head. I AM RUSHING. Instead of going home.Part II O viva morte. When he had drun it. THE DOCTOR IS AFRAID OF BRAIN FEVER. OFF THIS MOMENT TO SEE ABOUT A NURSE--AND SHALL STAY TILL ONE COMES. which was to have ta en place at two. His inclination was to lay his aching head on the pillow again. a note from Madeleine was handed to Maurice. In it. What had happened? Why should she be ill? A rac ing uneasiness seized him and would not let him rest. towards twelve o'cloc . she begged him to account to Schwarz for her absence from the rehearsal of a trio. he went to Madeleine's room and sat down to wait for her. and so. He was wa ened by Madeleine's entrance. and still did. he saw the tumbled. as of something that had threatened. his last recollection was of being turned out of Krafft's room. he put his arms on the table. in order to catch Schwarz before he left the Conservatorium. I. GO AND EXPLAIN THAT IT IS QUITE IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO COME. and.

I don't thin she'll die of it. that I don't approve of. and she was a little put out at her wasted sympathy. and was so busy and unsettled that only when she sat down. and I thin she has behaved wea ly--not to call it by a harder name--all through. A pretty way to behave! And that you should have mixed yourself up in it as you did!--I wouldn't have believed it of you. . It's not easy to say what the matter is. How I now? My dear boy. . I'm sure. she sent for bread and sausage. "Never mind. "Well. And eat something more. though honestly spea ing. she is ill enough. no wonder. Madeleine put his confusion down to another cause. Furst has told me all about it. My lord had the intention of snea ing off without a word. he is . She was not surprised." "Is she . but exclaimed at his appearance. "Going away?" she echoed. they escaped him against his will. And I found a nurse. let me fill up your cup. laid it on the piano. His companion raised her eyebrows. it's an abominable affair altogether!--and has been from beginning to end. and at once drew up the blind. and we still. it's the tal of the place. . NA!. and of leaving her to find it out for herself. Oh. for of course he has nothing of his own. filling her forehead with wrin les. I went to him at once this morning. I'm When she heard that he had had no dinner. "Yes. Maurice. how dreadful you loo ! Are you ill?" He hastened to reassure her. What do you say to that?" She flushed with sincere indignation. haven't myself." won't say any more about it. exactly--though it might be better for her if she did. . Sit That will do your head good--for you you? I shall be glad of some about I've had this morning. The poor girl is in a pitiable state. after all the running quite worn out. Frau Schaefele advanced him the money. dangerously ill?" "Well. no words are bad enough for him. The doctor is to see her again this evening. have a splitting headache.bustling in. But what condition do you thin the old wretch made? That he should brea with Louise. too. It seems he made his arrangements for going on the quiet. and I'll ma e you some tea. . My dear Maurice. did he get a chance to say: "What is it. all along. Madeleine? Is she very ill?" Madeleine shrugged her shoulders." "Then she is not going away?" He did not mean to say the words aloud. he changed colour and loo ed away. what is more. with her cup before her. Oh. "I should say not. though. "Good gracious. after the doings there were last night. But now. I thin we might have been prepared for something of this ind. as you now. There's much about Louise. it turns out she hadn't an idea he was going either. She was always                                   . . In his eagerness to recollect everything. she has my entire sympathy. to find him there. "Not an idea--until yesterday. it's over now. too off her hat." Her words called up to him a more lucid remembrance of the past evening than he had yet been capable of.

Bravery has as little room in his soul as honesty or manliness. You're a bric . she was devoted to Schils y. and between us we got her to bed. he was simply afraid of her. money and friends--to her infatuation. and I went for a doctor. when it came to the last. she nows no bounds. She was conscious. "However. and wouldn't spea or move. so she didn't go to her room till about half-past eight this morning. It has always been all or nothing with her. and sacrificed everything--wor . "Fraulein Grunhut. I thin he was beginning to feel Louise a drag on him. I shall go bac after supper. but she was stiff and cold. Louise hates to be pried on. I'm glad to say. He was                                                     . and ma e up for the lost morning. and hear what the doctor says. she won't die. Grunhut couldn't do anything with her. . Without thin ing twice--you now her . and this was a matter of life and death to her. I haven't touched a note to-day. he now let himself be persuaded easily enough. if you ta e my advice. Come to-morrow. and this is a moral judgment on her. Maurice.jealous of Louise--though to him she only tal ed of the holiness of art and the artist's calling. She sent for me." "No. but didn't hear her come in. she nows no bounds. or rather you don't--she went straight to Schils y and confronted him. and I have been on my feet ever since. but I can imagine something of it. Such things excite a man. "And now I really must get to wor . who was as unsuspecting as a child. when she too in the hot water. As for you." She rose and smoothed her hair before the mirror. That was at nine." "Good-bye. when Louise. her landlady. As I say. Madeleine. and her eyes were open. and refilled the teapot. Excess of any ind brings its own punishment with it. But I shouldn't wonder if it affected her mind. don't you now?--and ruffle the necessary artistic composure. She lived only for him. heard of it from some one--they say it was Krafft." Having returned to his room. and the danger of letting domestic ties entangle you. and has never learnt self-restraint. if you li e. heard her go out yesterday afternoon. and candidly. and was mortally afraid. for when Louise lets herself go." continued Madeleine meditatively. and the old woman is lazy. Then she found Louise stretched on the floor." "It's awfully good of you. I now of late they were not getting on well together. Good-bye. I can't tell you what too place between them. and rubbish of that ind. stirring her tea. Well." Madeleine rose. And this I must say: however foolish and wrong the whole thing was. He would always prefer a bac -door exit. I believe she was at the bottom of it that he didn't marry Louise long ago. But to be such a coward and a wea ling! To slin off in this fashion! Of course. you'll go home and go to bed. for further news. and of the scene she would ma e him. "She's too robust a nature for that. blew out the flame of the spirit-lamp. so it must have been late in the evening. however that may be. he lay face downwards on the sofa. He was hearing on all sides that he had been here too long." She laughed scornfully. Everything went well till yesterday afternoon. her hat lying beside her. he didn't escape scot-free after all. . A good sleep is what you're needing. just as she had come in last night.

throughout the days of suspense that now ensued. in desperation. he felt a sudden antipathy to Madeleine. despite her good deeds. and. he was seized by a fear lest Louise should have died in the night. Then. was misdirected. Only the heartless and selfish--those who deserved to suffer--went free. however. on every side was cruelty and suffering. Viewed in the light of the story he had heard from Madeleine. it was eleven o'cloc before Madeleine returned. Madeleine was returning at two o'cloc to relieve the nurse. during the period of anxiety. At first they were always the same: there was no change. Now. Again he felt eenly the contrariness of life. she refused nourishment. when. two hours. waited till she returned." she reproved Maurice. afterwards. At first. Through brooding on it. life seemed too unjust to be endured. that he had not done so. Go home and settle down to wor . on awa ening from a heavy sleep. on a day li e this. He had almost two hours to wait. He pressed the bac of his hand to his tired eyes. when he had struggled on for half an hour. it had left untouched. Maurice was ready to tremble lest anything should occur to soil the robe of saintly suffering. she bro e into a convulsive fit of weeping. But before he reached home again. the specific shade of a crescendo. But there was no change in the sic girl's condition. He went regularly every afternoon to Madeleine. early one morning. no one could recall. "And it won't mend matters in the least. strained eyes. where his suspicions were confirmed by the lowered blinds. in which he draped her. li e a sensible fellow. an hour. day and night. the vast output of energy that composed it. ma ing a detour through the BRUDERSTRASSE. Fever did not set in. if she were not at home. he wal ed deep into the woods.sic at heart. and he went early to Madeleine. not very far away. and in this mood he remained. as the case might be. he sprang up. He began to ta e up the steady routine of his life again. realising how monstrous it was that he should be sitting there. and spo e of a consultation. on learning what had happened. and the strongest sleeping-draught had no effect. who. Louise lay with wide. and. but. could ta e up her ordinary occupation. "You are foolishly letting it upset you altogether. Louise perhaps lay dying. On the day Maurice learnt that she was out of danger. seemed of a ludicrous vanity compared with the grim little tragedy that touched him so nearly. and all the labour which those around him were expending on the cult of hand and voice and car. for some trifling cause which. But it was of no use. his brain had begun to wor at matters which. and subsequently fell asleep. the doctor was perplexed. and Louise had passed safely through the ordeal. the fear became a certainty. Furst                                     . The news had lifted such a load from his mind that he felt almost happy. getting the right notes of a turn. he had been selfless enough to hope that Schils y would return. This was the vital moment of the day--when he read her tidings from her face. It propounded riddles no one could answer." He tried to follow Madeleine's advice. Her face was so grave that his heart seemed to stop beating. In the morning. went on till she was exhausted. drilling his fingers.

a feeling of benevolence towards other people awa ened in him. and the latter. "Louise rubs me up the wrong way. Schwarz was as ing for him. under a different aspect. she said gruffly. and abruptly changed the subject. A day or two later. had been of a praiseworthy reticence. had been gone for about a wee . and no allusion was made to the night in the BRUHL. Maybe you'd get something more out of her.                                                       . "That's all I can tell you. up to this time. anyhow. and a dirty maid-servant showed him Avery's room. she did not now where or why. "He was so queer lately that I'd he just as pleased if he stayed away altogether. "Then what do you want?" she as ed in her short. Nevertheless. "I came up to see Heinz. He mentioned the incident to Madeleine that evening. And they tell me he is not here. He had left suddenly one morning. then alarmed at seeing him. she was still obliged to eep her bed. made no mien to let him enter. who. when he had reassured her. he tac led Furst. unpleasant way. She loo ed strangely at him. About a fortnight had elapsed since the beginning of Louise's illness. whether he was ill. and when. let fall a hint which made Maurice loo blan with amazement." "Where to? Will he be away long?" "How should I now?" she cried rudely. or anything of the ind. Maurice rang there. At his noc . Herr Krafft was away. on the strength of a rumour that reached his ears. "And she isn't in the least grateful for all I've done for her. he thought." he consoled her. one afternoon. and Frau Schulz sent me to you." she said. I really thin she prefers having the nurse about her to me." "Sic people often have such fancies. She nows more than she says. he could not now avoid seeing certain incidents in his friendship with Krafft. More than once. it's true." and she pointed with her thumb at the door of the adjoining PENSION. it was Maurice who volunteered to find out. without her nowledge. Schwarz as ed the assembled class if no one new what had become of Krafft. decidedly out of temper. holding the door in her hand. she opened the door herself. With the cessation of his anxiety. and the following day a postcard had come from him. stating that all his things were to lie untouched till his return. He remembered now that he had not seen Krafft at the Conservatorium for a wee or more. "Am I his eeper? Find out for yourself." she complained to Maurice. if you must now. li e one on the loo -out for bad news. Frau Schulz loo ed astonished to see him." and the door slammed to in his face. and. of late. Is it true that he has gone away?" "Yes.received him with open arms. and first loo ed surprised. Madeleine had returned from her daily visit. "What's the matter? Has anything happened?" she stammered.

without replying. She'll be all right. "Or tell me what I as about the Sister?" There was not a shade of umbrage in her tone. Besides. The truth was that Madeleine's conscience was by no means easy. On admitting her. to hear her. "I have got up. . then. are you not going to spea to me to-day?" she said in a pleasant voice. And I've sent the Sister away--because . Both her arms were upraised and held to it. As she did so. .                         . Enough is enough. "There's a limit to everything--even to my patience with her rudeness. in such a low voice that Madeleine had to pause in what she was doing. what are you doing out of bed?" cried Madeleine. she utttered an exclamation of surprise. I'm not paid for my services. and must get on now as best she can. and am under no obligation to listen to such things as Louise said to me to-day. She had gone to see Louise on that particular afternoon. she had opened a letter that was on the table. "How can she possibly get on with only those strangers about her?" "She's not so ill now. Fraulein Grunhut had endeavoured to detain her in the passage. I don't go bac again. clear voice. and. that. oh. Louise. and did not loo up as she spo e." she answered. She is well on the mend. on coming in." But one afternoon. he found. Louise moved her head again. and loo ed away from Madeleine to the wall of the room. and requested that he would now let the matter drop. we have never got on well for long together. was standing at the high tiled stove behind the door." "But you're surely not going to ta e what a sic person says seriously?" Maurice exclaimed in dismay. and loo ed up at Madeleine from under her heavy lids. as she loo ed round the room: "And where is Sister Martha?" Louise moved her head. brusquely putting her aside. she opened the door of the sic girl's room. I wash my hands of the whole affair."Louise shows hers a little too plainly. mumbling and gesticulating in the mystery-mongering way with which Madeleine had no patience. "Good Heavens. in a flannel dressing-gown. It incited her to answer the old woman in a loud. She maintained an obstinate silence about what had happened." answered Madeleine. as she unbuttoned her jac et. Madeleine laid one by one on the table some small purchases she had made on the way there." And on returning the following day. because I couldn't endure having her   "Well. true to her word. and she leant her forehead against the tiles. Madeleine had not gone bac . she unpinned her hat and threw it on the piano. so that another spot of forehead came in contact with the tiles. with even more inconvenience to herself than usual. "because I could not bear to lie in bed any longer. sure enough. with a decisive haste that was characteristic of her in anger. "That's the end.

as if swallowing were an effort. deep-set nails: hands li e those of an adoring Virgin. only half emptied. a sculptor had modelled them for a statue of Antigone--long. and. I have no time to come oftener than I do. In their way. Instead." "Come. were gone from her. with it. "Here is your tea. "I wish I had died. hands which had an eloquent language all their own.                                             . Why didn't you let me die?" repeated Louise in the same apathetic way. and sat down in a low American roc ing-chair. "On your own responsibility? Louise!--how absurd! Well. with closely nit fingers. you now. to a young child. and which were out of place on the eys of a piano. and rattled the tea-cups. I suppose I must put on my hat again and fetch her bac . and put her cup." "I wish I had died. If you haven't mortally offended her. Meanwhile the latter had laid her arms along the low arms of the chair. and what she ought to do if she could not get her to come bac . They had been photographed. Louise sat loo ing at them.about me." "You have sent Sister Martha away?" echoed Madeleine. and pale. "I will go now. secretly observing her. "and see if I can persuade Sister Martha to come bac . on the table. she loo ed at her watch. which she had once been vain of. I don't need anyone. For Louise would certainly have despatched her in tragedy-fashion. "Nonsense! You mustn't tal about dying--now that you are nearly well again. Besides. and her face was so changed--the hollow setting of the eyes reminded perpetually of the bones beneath. but little or no agility. to anyone with whom it is not fitting to dispute. li e a good girl. such things are easily said." The girl dran it slowly. while Madeleine went round the room. she was cogitating whether it would be more convenient to go after the nurse at once. How can you get on alone. and now sat gazing from one to the other of her hands. One doesn't mean them. such freshness as she had once had. get bac into bed. that is. these hands of hers had acquired a ind of fame. remar ed to herself that Louise loo ed at least ten years older than before." she said in a toneless voice. nostrils and lips were pinched and thinned--that Madeleine. Her youth. and I will ma e you some tea. This done. and opening a window." she said. slim and strong. the lines were hammered blac below the eyes. touching and ordering." said Madeleine." "I'm quite well now. I should li e to now? Really. Madeleine did not reply. where she crouched despondently. in the gently superior tone that one uses to a sic person. Madeleine smiled with exaggerated cheerfulness. Louise left the stove." Louise started up from her chair.

" she could not refrain from adding." Madeleine sniffed audibly. .                       . "A few wee s' change of air is what you need to set you up again. If you are really determined not to have her. humbled and submissive. and gradually her sobs abated. dry sobs. in place of getting ready to leave. When she had finished. and was on the brin of tears. When you hear on all sides that it's for your own good----" "Oh. stop tormenting me!" cried Louise.--You can't!" "Yes . Louise too it. raising a drawn face with disordered hair. and her hands were so hard. and her pity became tinged with impatience. then she shall not come and that's the end of it. Oh." she said as she beat up the pillows and smoothed out the crumpled sheets.   She trembled with excitement. Louise began to cry. don't bring her bac again! Her voice cut li e a nife. . There was nothing more she could do for me. preparatory to coaxing her patient bac to bed. "There's no need for it. I shall sleep a thousand times better at night if she is not here." "Hush!--don't excite yourself li e that. if you prefer it. if . Not but what I thin it foolish of you all the same. and was sha en by hard. "You are still wea . in a tone which meant many things." said Madeleine. she began             Louise shoo her head. if Eugen should come bac . I shall stay here--though I never get well again. as she had intended. but went severely on with her bedma ing." "Nonsense! Of course you can. Madeleine stood. for a change. . holding a sheet with both hands. and tried to soothe her. When all sound of crying had ceased."Madeleine!--please--please. "Louise!" she said at last. "I won't go away! Nothing will ma e me. don't! I can't have her bac again. But now Madeleine. "There's no reasoning with you. and revolved what she felt it to be her duty to say. I am quite well now. but did not spea ." The words could only just be caught." Madeleine shrugged her shoulders." "I cannot go away. I'll do my best to run up this evening to see that you have everything for the night. she crossed to the washstand. "The doctor says you must go away somewhere. as though she could not believe her ears. However." "But why? Give me one sensible reason for not going. and poured out a glass of water. sat down at the centre table." "I don't want you either. Madeleine did not loo at her again. . You don't want to be ill all the winter?" "I don't want to be well.

and if you felt as you ought to about it. He's not worth any respectable person's----" "Respectable!" burst in Louise. "It is not true. that on the last evening. "That is not true." She reddened with indignation. and his disgraceful treatment of you----" Louise loo ed up for an instant. in a quiet voice. . there are one or two things I should li e to say to you. . "Do you thin I should say it. her face was hidden. and holding her hand erchief to her lips. and pressed the palms of her hands together. "and. after all you have done for him. . as if she were about to rise. at a KNEIPE in the GOLDENE HIRSCH. ." Madeleine proceeded cautiously choosing her words. He did this. Do you now. "Not true?" echoed Madeleine. and unworthiness. "After all the . Why do you come here. He's not worth it. you can ma e me leave off caring for him?--when for                                                 ." repeated Louise. brea . "I don't invent scandal. tipsy crew? More than that. "The reason you give for staying is not a serious one. "As if it were not bad enough for him to go. about you going to his room that afternoon----" "It's not true. First then.to spea . underhand way--it's enough to ma e one sic . and went on: "If you are ready to defend a man who has acted towards you as he has--in a way that ma es a respectable person's blood boil--there is indeed nothing more to be said. But now she lifted her head. if it weren't?" she as ed. and raised two blazing eyes to her companion's face. "Then I have nothing more to say. the precautions that were ta en to ensure the ." she said. half turning her bac to Madeleine. but that he must do it in such a mean. and leaned on it. he boasted of what you had done for him--boasted about everything that had happened between you--to a rowdy. you have been very ill. "You have brought the matter up yourself. and tal li e that to me? He did what he was obliged to--that's all: for I should never have let him go. Louise. And Louise. if you are able to admire his behaviour--if you don't consider it disgraceful--no. "That's the second time." said Louise in the same expressionless voice. so I can spea of it. more than that--infamous----" She stopped. And you are bound to hear it when you go out again. it is not all li ely . and worse than I choose to tell you. now the ice is bro en. Madeleine. But who can tell what may happen if you persist in remaining on here by yourself. Madeleine shrugged her shoulders. it's not true. pray. "Well. I hope. far worse than you now--the immediate danger is over now. he gave shameless details." she said. "even though he did--suppose he did--after the way he has behaved. as if she had got these few words by heart. . Madeleine pushed bac her chair." she said. not being able to find a stronger epithet. The only thing to compare with it is his conduct on the night before he left. Can't you see how preposterous it is to thin that by tal ing of respectability. . he would thin of returning. She rose from her chair. in the state you are in?" Louise did not stir." she added with warmth. you would never give him another thought. persuasively.

"You would never do that. You would never beg him to go on loving you. "You have wor ed yourself into such a state that you don't now what you're saying.months I have lived for nothing else? Do you thin one can change one's feelings so easily? Don't you understand that to love a person once is to love him always and altogether?--his faults as well--everything he does. it's your nature--your cold. and stood buttoning her jac et." She laughed. No. "I shall not answer you. "Because you will never care for anyone more than yourself--it isn't in you to do it. Madeleine had carried the cups and saucers to a side-table. forcing herself to spea "If I thought it li ely." retorted Madeleine. unthin ingly----" She bro e down. real and imaginary. "You would never do that. I have done nothing to you--but be ind to you. You are doubly safe. without the least attempt at shielding you. and hid her face again. "And I'll tell you why. she gazed at Madeleine with wild eyes. after he had ceased to care." she said. good or bad. "And do you now why?" Her words came quic ly again. As I would. or you would now it. tight on to the end. He has made you the tal of the place. that she had undergone at the hands of this cooler nature. He has behaved scandalously. And you may consider me narrow and prejudiced. would you?" she repeated. I thin you might try to curb your tongue. but tears were near at hand. and have so little proper pride that you even say you would ta e him bac !----" Louise turned on her. It isn't in you to do it." "It's not preposterous at all. her voice shoo with excitement. or thin nothing on earth worth having if he would not--or could not. for faults you were not conscious of having committed. . Madeleine. But Louise had not finished. she grew quieter." But chancing to loo at Madeleine. no matter what other people thin of it? Oh." she said. but I mean absolutely. would you?--never so far forget yourself as to crawl to a man's feet and as --as ?--no. while her pale lips poured forth a ind of revenge for the suffering." "Kind to me? Do you call it ind to come here and try to set me     "And I hope I never shall. and now put on her hat. till everything you are familiar with falls away. with a red. you have never really cared for anyone yourself. "Yes--if he had deserved all the affection you wasted on him. But that's not the case. ta en and sha en. There are plenty of plainer women than you. or if unhappy circumstances had separated you. narrow way. who can ma e men follow them. for you will never be able to ma e a man care so much that--that you are forced to love him li e this in return. Coming round to the front of the roc ing-chair. without nowing what it is to care for some one--oh. narrow. and leaning on the table."                                                                   calmly. You will never now what it is to be ta en out of yourself. as I have done. egotistic nature--which only lets you care for things outside yourself in a cold. exasperated face. that you should still be ready to defend him. I don't mean because you're plain. You will go through life. I should never loo at a man again. Madeleine had turned her bac on her. When he has shown you as plainly as he can that he's tired of you. implore forgiveness. but this I must say--I am boundlessly astonished at you. All the same.

and drew bac to avoid touching her. he possibility it may not be true. It had been going on for months. just by raising her finger. Sometimes. as the person you're so proud of having attracted. not to you--to me who have never given him loo or thought. other women do it in other ways. before the other was in. All the blood had left her face and the dar rings below her eyes stood out with alarming distinctness. and return them. failed." "Go away--go out of my room!" cried Louise. and now turned to leave the room." She had spo en with unconcealed anger. loo ing and being loo ed at. he does. "It's entirely your own fault that I it. That a woman can so far lose her pride as to----" "Oh. I have seen you. as him yourself--as him who it is that could bring him to her." she said. on which she leaned heavily. and aspiring to die for his sa e. and spread herself across it. just as he had first told all about you. Yes. You feed on such loo s--yes. trust me. "That's a direct untruth. If it's any was drun at the time. And Madeleine went. it seems. by a stranger. For the last six months. You!--and not to egg a man on. without delay. and went bac to the table. "That's a lie.--And how you have failed? Yes. Madeleine! Of your own ma ing." Madeleine paled. if he hadn't been forced to--if I hadn't been a hindrance to him--a drag on him. without any thoughts of pride or self-respect. you were hardly out of his room. How dare you say such a thing !--how dare you!" Madeleine loo ed at her with cold aversion. I shall at least ta e care not to ma e myself the laughing-stoc of the place. heartily annoyed with provo e me by saying what you did. "Are his own words not proof enough! He told the whole story that night. Do you thin I haven't seen how you have been trying to ma e some one here li e you?--doing your utmost. too. to be with you consolation to you to now it. You shall prove it to me before you go out of this room. then went scarlet. Every one new it. For while you were cringing before him. Madeleine felt a sudden compunction at what she had done. "You had no right to declare. I'll trouble you to mind your own business.against the man I love best in the world? And who loves me best. if you see he admires you! You now every time a passer-by loo s at you in the street. without raising your finger. my lady. He would never have gone. But Louise was at the door before her.--And this unpleasant feeling remained with her until she turned the corner of                                                                 . Whatever I do or don't do. having almost a physical sensation about her throat of the slender hands stretched so threateningly towards her. he was ma ing love behind your bac to another girl. Louise. too." "It ma es me ashamed of my sex to hear you say such things.--For the rest. And if you don't believe me. but you. It's to me he would come. in a way no decent woman allows." Louise moved away from the door. Yes. and there's a told you anything whatever about herself. And if you don't believe me. "Prove it?" she echoed. I ma es one just li e you. you have only succeeded in ma ing yourself ridiculous.

On examining it anew. WILL YOU COME TO ME THIS EVENING? LOUISE DUFRAYER. wondering why he did not come. He was to go to her. He tore it open. Did he thin she had nothing else to do than to carry things in and out of his room? The letter had lain on the chest of drawers in the passage. bearing a letter which she said had been left for him an hour or two previously. to go this moment. "Why. had he troubled to loo . Then she pointed to the door of the room. His heart beat with precise hammerings. On the afternoon when Maurice found that Madeleine had ept her word he went home and paced his room in perplexity. He was staring at the envelope. He made. Avery Hill?--Johanna Cayhill? But Avery was occupied with her own troubles. too wea to raise her hand. the landlady did not mista e him for a possible thief. She carried a lamp in her hand. He had not shaved that day. and his first impulse was to call for hot water. and Johanna's relationship to Ephie put her out of the question. His brain went stupidly over the few people to whom he might turn for aid. There was no heading. He was thin ing fantastic thoughts of somehow offering his own services. and left him to ma e                                     . and he made a threatening movement towards the door. remembering that if the letter were what he believed. only to colour at himself when finished. as if he were afraid of it. however. then chec ed himself. she was perhaps waiting for him. he could have seen it for himself. His heart was thumping now. and the extraordinary position of the loo ing-glass. He held the unopened letter at arm's length. I MUST SPEAK TO YOU. it seemed to him that the lightly gummed envelope had been tampered with. destroying the envelope in his nervousness. Frau Krause bridled instantly. In the same breath he gave up the idea: it was out of the question by the poor light of the lamp. As it was. he believed he new the handwriting. it would be written in English. or of even throwing himself on the goodness of a person li e Miss Jensen. a hasty toilet in his best. He pictured Louise lying helpless. He laid the letter on the table. when Frau. Was there ever such a fool as he? His act contained the germ of an insult: and he rapidly changed bac to his wor aday wear. and eyed her restless lodger with suspicion. Krause entered the room. and it was only a few lines long. But she loo ed at him in an unfriendly way. for it was evening already. and it was eight o'cloc before he rang the door-bell in the BRUDERSTRASSE. didn't you bring this in when it came?" he demanded. whose motherly form must surely imply a corresponding motherliness of heart. she said so herself. and said grumblingly that Fraulein had been expecting him for an hour or more. in the name of goodness. Now. and too a few turns in the room before he pic ed it up again. II. All this too time. Maurice waved her away.the street.

. the strain had been too great. He noc ed gently. "And I am quite alone. "Anything!--anything that lies in my power. but stood gazing at him. and grateful--yes. waiting for her to tell him why she had summoned him. you have come. Then I thought of you. which   He too one of the stuffed arm-chairs she indicated.   She did not give him her hand. With her elbows on her nees. .                                       . I came at once. . . and he turned the handle. and her loo was so helpless and forlorn that he grew uncomfortable.since I saw you last . For more than twenty-four hours she had brooded over one idea. She was trying to fasten her thoughts on what she had to say. in spite of her efforts. The large room was dar . Again there was silence. but her eyes remained fixed on the cloth." she said with a sigh. Maurice saw so much. in the indifference of sheer fatigue."--her voice bro e. now that the moment had come. except for the light shed by a small lamp. and several seconds passed before she said: "Won't you sit down?" "You will thin it strange that I should send for you li e this . but. that it did not matter whether she spo e or not. and wound her hand erchief to a ball. as if a load had been lifted from her mind. She would have li ed to lay her head on her arms and sleep." She met his eyes." She paused. as he saw how greatly illness had changed her." She supported herself on the table. but no sound came over her lips. her indecision seemed to increase. and stammered." said Maurice fervently. "Won't you tell me what it is?" he as ed. she became conscious of an expression in his face. Louise stared hard at the pattern of the tablecloth. Maurice sat stiff and erect." he said. grateful--if there were anything I could do for you. but I'm better now. I have no one to help me. "I should be so glad. indeed. ." "You have been ill?" he said. But as she loo ed at the young man. it almost seemed to her now. From somewhere out of the dus that lay beyond. The old woman. Louise was in a crumpled dressing-gown. when I now you so slightly." she began at length. after another long brea . her eyes searching his face. "I thought you were not coming. "But . before she was close beside him. . a white figure rose and came towards him. I have been in trouble. her chin on her two hands. and. you were ind to me once." "I only got your note a few minutes ago. I . her strength deserted her. . "I new you would. "Yes. they eluded her. . and she went bac to the sofa. you offered to help me. who stood watching his movements. which stood on the table before the sofa. He fidgeted his hands round the brim of his hat. signed to him to enter.his way in alone. and tried to say something. and her hair was loosened from its coil on her nec . but no one answered. "Oh. which he was holding to him. to render the pause that followed less embarrassing.

how. Maurice loo ed round him for assistance. however. I. "It is not true. as he did not spea : "you or anyone else--a hundred thousand times better--and I KNOW it is true. in the state you mention. how he boasted about my caring for him. he had a presentiment of what was coming. all this time. Louise gave him a personal loo . without paying any heed to him. with her and for her. and held a warm ray of gratitude. and not only that. ." Maurice turned very red. but left the sentence unended. "That is not it. ." she said slowly. behind my bac . . "I new him better than you. "Can you really believe you thin better of him than that?" For the first time since she had nown him." she continued. lowering his voice. too. His discomfiture at her discovery was so palpable that it gave her courage to go on. . "But if I assure you it is not true? If I give you my word that you have been misinformed?" "Who was it? What is her name?" He rose. and used his hands.. she went on unsparingly: "I want you to tell me who it was." "I was wrong then. . one evening." It was more of a statement than a question. And. before that drun en crowd. Her eyes held him fast." The young have been intuition it? Don't man coloured. "Then you won't tell me?" "Tell you? How can I? There's nothing to tell." Still he did not answer. a flash of suggested an afterthought to him. how some one--no. when I thought it was only me. there was some one else . a loo that belonged to him alone. . "You are mista en." He laid his hat on a chair. . "You were one of those. three wee s ago. but how. that afternoon----" She could not finish. "Then you must have heard----" she began quic ly. His suspicions too shape. . how the man I loved and trusted . were you not. . "You must also have heard .made her own grow hard." he declared. "You heard all that was said. "I won't be pitied. His retreating colour rose again. . and he made a large. and went away from the table. "I heard nothing of the ind. . you misled. again. someone he cared for . and pressed her notted hand erchief to her lips. to his room ." he said with vehemence. Then." Leaning forward. was among those ." he added as an afterthought. . she opened her eyes so wide that he saw a rim of white round the brown of the pupils.. who were present at a certain cafe in the BRUHL. . vague gesture of dissent. he told how I had been to him . and his feelings were painted on his face. Remember. His heart had gone out to her in her distress. "You heard how . You have no pity for me?"                                 . .

coming home from the theatre?--Or have you perhaps forgotten?" "Then do you remember." Directly he had said this. and did not move. with her head bowed. . after all. I believe--you had thought about me . the blinds had not been drawn. for fear he should remind her of his presence. gave her face a loo of febrile intensity. . since the first time you had seen me--you even new where that was. "Then she is not with him?" she cried. I was in a bad mood that night. She had pushed the heavy wings of hair up from her forehead. and this. together with her extreme pallor. When the paroxysm had passed. and there was a jubilation in her voice. but she let the admission contained in the words pass unnoticed. what you said to me? How. the young man could not but comment on the ironic fashion in which fate was treating him: not once. a minute ago. She leaned forward. forgetting how. she sat down on the sofa and drew the folds of her dressing-gown to her. "But all the same I can't tell you what you as me. he was aware of his foolishness. no!" she cried. thought too much. Do you remember?" "Do you thin when a man says a thing li e that he forgets it? "as ed Maurice in a gruff voice. "If you new how often I have reproached myself for it!" he added. as he spo e. held it so tightly that it left a furrow in his hand. Oh. She remained standing. But I remember. Everything seemed to have gone against me. "My God!" Maurice hardly breathed. in all the hours he had spent on the                       He shoo his head. "Come and sit here. and was angry with you."Pity!--I no pity?" he cried. who. . but in his face was such a mixture of surprise and disconcertion that it was answer enough. she loo ed out into the dar ness. she had resented his feeling it. In the theatre--in . which has never been touched. . and though we must pretend to. she crossed to the window. as she remembrance of that past night. and even smiled a little. in his nervousness. by chance. I want to spea to you." she answered. "do you remember a night last summer. in her old position. and Maurice. Maurice made no answer. with its alternations of pain and pleasure. "There was no need for that. too. and did not at first see that Louise had raised her head again and was contemplating him. which she did not attempt to suppress. no. In spite of his trouble of mind.                     . "We women never resent having such things said to us--never--though it is supposed we do. . too. "Maurice Guest. . bro e over her. you happened to wal with me. When she had succeeded in ma ing him loo at her. and leaning her forehead on the glass. had gripped the bac of his chair. springing to her feet. He was loo ing into the lamp. You don't realise what it means: putting a slur on a young girl's name . He turned. when. or words to that effect." But Maurice only shot a quic glance at her." she said slowly. and loo ed down on her with a ind of pitying wisdom.

"Feel that! Feel how it throbs and burns! And so it has gone on for hours now. for days. Be my friend.--Oh. I suppose. and stood at his                             continue I as the first it? It is a again. Don't torture me then-you. you wouldn't have anything more to do with me. I can't thin or feel--with that fever in me." "Wrong! What is wrong?--and what is right? They are only words. Is it right that I should be left li e this?--thrown away li e a bro en plate? Oh. Oh. Anything but this.pavement below. But he ept his head turned stubbornly away. li e this." "This I can't tell you. "Then it was not true?--what you said that night. Are you not a little sorry for me? Is there nothing I can do to ma e you sorry?" "You won't realise what you are as ing me to do. she went bac to the sofa. to the window. you won't do lesson to me. "But I want nothing else." she said imperiously. I . to hurriedly: "You care for me li e that. and threw a quic glance at the pale face so near his own. had Louise come." "I would cut off my hands for you. If you can't do this one small thing for me! Oh."                 Then. Be ind to me now. when and only thing I shall ever as of you. please tell me!--you who ma e-believe to care for me. You won't? When it comes to the point. for he felt the impossiblity of standing out much longer against her. But you are as ing me to do something I thin wrong. and yet. and ta ing his hand in hers. wishing himself away. I must now who it was. there is no one else I can turn to. now that she did so. Letting his hand drop. Maurice Guest. he was in the room beside her." For the second time. in a low voice he told her what she wished to hear. You only thin you do.   "Tell me everything you now about her. "I would do anything in the world for you. He instinctively moved a step away from her. she did not now it." "Then you don't really care." He spo e in a constrained voice. then shoo her head. laid it against her forehead. Louise caught the note of yielding. not to come to you for help can't understand you men! You are all--all ali e. she seemed to see him and consider him." Maurice was vanquished." she began in slow surprise. or I would. or I shall go mad. "What       "You feel li e that. "If I were to tell you how much more than that is true." "True?" echoed Maurice. And you are the only person who can help me. repeated the name slowly after him. too! You are good.       to him." She repeated his last words after him. with a swift movement. She read the syllables from his lips. I shall not rest till I now who it was that too him from me. she came bac side. a man will do nothing--nothing at all.

but of her hair he could say little. He felt very perplexed. "You must bring her to me. it had been carried on in secret. and in his heart he new that he had always believed--just as Louise believed--in Ephie's guilt. Questioned thus. Do you thin I shall hurt her? Is she any better than I am? Oh. her mouth drooped. he had seen nothing else to render him uneasy. But at his first light movement she opened her eyes. For. But now the whole affair rose vividly before his mind again.             "No. "You will bring her here to-morrow--to-morrow afternoon. his drun en boasts to ta e into account. after his one encounter with Ephie and Schils y. and the first firing of his suspicions. and." She came over to him again. but firstly. Louise caught at the detail. he had striven against admitting. There had been. No: guilt was too strong a word." Maurice demurred no more. he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Ephie had gone to Switzerland. and. "Now go. don't be afraid! We are not so easily soiled. in the next place. The tense expression of her face relaxed. but. Only one thing was clear to him: he had promised to bring Ephie to see her the next day. when he had pledged his word. But what he now as ed himself was: did not the bringing of the child. or almost directly afterwards--three or four days at most--Schils y had ta en his departure. did not try to force from his lips. "He had blac enough here. and very young. and a relentless impatience seized her at his powerlessness. go!" And he obeyed. under these circumstances. except that it was not blac ." and she ran her hands through her own unruly hair. the events which had followed that evening had been of so much greater importance to him that he had had no thoughts to spare for Ephie--more especially as he then new that Schils y was out of the way. there was no sound in the room. "I must see her for myself. he was not even sure whether to call Ephie pretty or not. a few wee s later. and too his hands. no.   "For until I see her. imply a tacit ac nowledgment that she was seriously involved?--a fact which. not blac !" she cried. in an underhand way: there had been nothing straightforward or above-board about it. and. in the woods that summer.is she li e?--what is she li e? What is the colour of her hair?" Maurice was a poor hand at description. For what seemed a long time. the promise was given and must be ept. all along." she said to                                       . There was nothing she did not want to now. I shall not now--I shall not herself. The night was cold. as he stood irresolute in the street. on her return in September. when he had stammered into silence. of course. and this alone was enough to compromise a young girl." she said. however wrong it might be. Maurice had only retained a hazy idea of their nature. she lay bac in the sofa-corner and shut her eyes. "Not blac . that you really can't as me to do. Maurice thought she had fallen asleep. "Please." she said at length. he new that she was small. Yet however harmless the flirtation might have been in itself." now.

or.The Cayhills had been in Leipzig again for three wee s. don't!" cried Mrs. Tully sat on a small sofa. the language of signs by which she had conversed with Schils y in the theatre. and slapped him playfully on the hand. thereby displaying two prominently gold teeth. with her arm round Ephie's waist: they were the centre of the group. was to as a favour of her. Tully laughed very much indeed. and murmured: "Cruel--cruel!" "And even if I wanted to go when the time came. the impossibility of her guilt." answered Ephie slily. He sat down beside Johanna. not only to secure her word that she would come out with him. insincere behaviour with the circle of young men that gathered round her. But as he wal ed to the LESSINGSTRASSE. and as ed Ephie if he might come to ta e her for a wal . without being able to help it. and it did not appear li ely that Maurice would get an opportunity of spea ing to Ephie in private. superficial untruths. and still more at Boehmer's remar that it was an ancient privilege of the ladies. how do you expect me to now so long beforehand? Ever so many things may happen before to-morrow. who returned it. where Johanna conducted Maurice. rising. they grow presumptuous. and waited. to a levity of character which. he remembered. was summoned to bear witness against her. as well as a very young American. But she would not give him an express promise. She was in high spirits. it suddenly occurred to him to come and see them. Each of these incidents now seemed to point to a fatal frivolity. "Men are really shoc ing creatures. Tully laughed till the tears stood in their eyes. never to be obliged to now their own minds. He called up her pretty. heh!" at everything that was said. ill at ease. both she and Mrs. the day he had met her with Schils y: it seemed incredible to him now that he had not seen through them instantly. you naughty boy!" she cried. would offer no resistance. and had only a saucy greeting for him." said Ephie brilliantly. and it is our duty. but also to read from her fran eyes and childish lips the assurance of her innocence. Tully in her sprightly way. Cayhill sat in her accustomed corner. love. with which she had made his. he went over to the sofa. and at Boehmer's protestations of penitence and despair. Did he really expect her to grant it? "Don't. put to a real test. "Ephie. at which Mrs. the following day.                                           . at least. love. If we don't. who laughed: "Heh. "It's a libel--ta e that. Even the innocent iss she had once openly incited him to. He recalled each of the thin. had disturbed his relations with Ephie. Ephie all the more extravagantly because Maurice stood unsmiling before her. the next afternoon. that he had only paid them one hasty call. the first thing he did." and she shot an arch loo at Boehmer. and then. Ephie. Supper was over in the PENSION. He remembered the astounding ease with which he had made her acquaintance in the first case. by means of which she had defended herself. too. but so occupied had Maurice been during this time. and on the score of which she had been so exaggeratedly angry--this. all the trifles which. she pouted: after all these wee s. Soon his patience was exhausted. but only Mrs. Now he felt that he must see Ephie at once. at one time or another. Ephie was with the rest of the boarders in the general sitting-room. Boehmer was paying an evening visit. to eep them in their place. fingered his beard. or rather. love. how shall we punish him?" "He is not to come again for a wee . Mrs.

" Johanna followed him into the passage. But Ephie heard Johanna come and go. and helplessness. however. nor could she get Maurice's words out of her mind. Only the first of the letters she had written to him from Switzerland had elicited a reply. She learned what uncertainty meant. nowing that what she called "a little romance" was going on. and once Johanna had come upon her in tears." he added in a low voice. almost unnaturally lively. and stood by while he put on his coat. unanswered. or rather she had hitherto had none. Then. had underta en to enclose any letters that might arrive during Ephie's absence. and rejected them. she passed through more changes of mood than in all her previous life. and she longed for the hour of his visit--longed. she caught at any straw of hope." But Maurice only said: "Indeed?" and displayed no curiosity to now the reason why. hoped. and had nothing more to say to each other. and he had left all the notes she had sent him. was her only confidant. it had become plain even to her blind. she had not seen him since her return. only in so far as this lady."I as this as a direct favour. Johanna had no suspicions. and went to her own room. for formerly. concluded from the stillness that her sister was asleep. and suspense. Her fellow-boarder. "Then I may come at five? You will be ready? Good night. There's something I want to say to you--something important. suddenly. What could it be? There was only one important subject in the world for her now. Ephie declared that Herr Bec er had scolded her at her lesson. importunate admirer. and especially in the company of Mrs. She could not sleep. she pleaded a headache. After he had gone. listening outside the door. In the course of the past wee . When however they shoo hands. For she was quite in the dar about his movements. Johanna. He had something important to say to her. Mrs. as long as she was being teased about her pale. so that only she could hear it. Ephie was livelier than before. In this short time. and. III. and tried to read his face. but with these high spirits alternated fits of depression. Tully and her circle. Ephie. Since her return to Leipzig. would be almost comforted. She could still be lively when she li ed. she observed impulsively: "Sometimes I wish we were safe bac home again. They had used up all their small tal in the sitting-room. and could hear nothing of him. one and all. and that. Tully. but Johanna was not satisfied with this explanation. since getting bac . Driven into a corner. she invented numberless excuses for Schils y. for a day on end. Ephie's spirits had gone up and down li e a barometer in spring. the master's blame or praise had left no impression on her                             . Ephie changed colour at once. and was more than half afraid. sisterly eyes that something was the matter with Ephie.

Then. I don't thin can be well. Joan? I wish you would let me be. Cayhill. therefore. Johanna did not reply. without raising her eyes from the page. for.             she . and turning a page. without a word to her sister. and was even vaguely distracted by her from the web of circumstance that was enveloping her hero. mother. gave a loud sigh. she would have waited a little. she drew another stoc ing over her hand. Well. and the result was so disturbing that she resolved to broach the subject to her mother. compelled by something that was stronger than herself. Cayhill was getting over the pages at the rate of three or four a minute. she appeared in the sitting-room. and would soon have been finished. mother? There is something I wish to spea to you about. mother. her wor -bas et in the other. with a heap of undarned stoc ings in one hand." she said firmly. Cayhill querulously. finding the intermediate portion of the novel dry reading. "You are a nuisance. She is so unli e herself. bro en only by the turning of the leaves. Cayhill laid her boo on her nee. mother. Ephie could now. Cayhill. Mrs. be thoroughly peevish--a thing so new in her that it worried Johanna most of all. Cayhill hated moral persuasion with all her heart." "I can hear well enough. mother. and no letters were ready. but Ephie had adopted a way of going in and out of the house. to all appearance. The long wal s of the summer had been given up. before she repeated. But you can't hear me if you go on reading." continued Johanna." answered Mrs. Cayhill did not even blin . and would be lost to her surroundings until the end of the boo was reached. or that if she did not put on her bonnet and go out for a wal . still without loo ing up. please. and with a very determined expression on her face. Mrs. "What IS the matter. and listen to me. "It's about Ephie. and for some minutes there was silence. Cayhill was deep in WHY PAUL FERROL KILLED HIS WIFE. and as she spo e. Johanna scrutinised her eenly. But the moment was not a happy one: Mrs. she lost herself. Mrs." "Hm. she would be obliged to ta e another of her nerve-powders that night: and Mrs. Had Johanna been of an observant turn of mind. and glanced at Johanna's grave face. just as it pleased her. She heard Johanna. in the same decided tone: "Do you hear me. Johanna drew several threads across a hole she was darning. in the next one. Johanna would not persist. What the latter had to say would only be a reminder that it was mail-day. I am not easy about her lately. On the morning after Maurice's visit." said Mrs. Even worse than this.little sister's mind. without any outward sign of impatience. Joan." said Mrs. But Johanna sat down at the table and opened fire. "Put down your boo . that if she too no notice of her. on slight provocation. from experience. but she believed."                               "I wish to spea to you. ma e haste now--what is it?"   "It's Ephie.

Joan! You let Ephie be. after such a long vacation--and that's all it is--you want to rush off to a fresh place." "She's not well. without haste." Johanna had heard this remar too often to be sensitive to it. . Her head is being turned. when we are just so comfortably fixed here for the winter." "Arguments not sound! What big words you love to use. I believe it would be better for her if we went somewhere else for the winter--even if we returned home. "I thin I should be the first to notice if she were sic . so"--Johanna hesitated for a word--"so laxly on earnest subjects." "That's another thing. You see that yourself. Cayhill is coming over to fetch us bac --and ."Really. in particular. and to have a finger in every pie. and if he chooses to continue his attentions. and they have such different ideas of things from ourselves. mother. He is really more serious than the rest. you are absurd! Because Ephie finds it hard to settle down again. and she's a favourite wherever she goes. mother. These young men who come about the house are so foolish. . not at all displeased. when . and turned her boo over on its face. But you li e to ma e yourself important. why. he nows well enough that nothing can come of it. laughing with an exaggerated carelessness. I'm sure. "When it comes to serious 'chances. "Really." said Mrs. And it is telling on Ephie--Loo . She grows prettier every day. for she new from experience that what her elder daughter resolved on. Nothing binds us. every one would suppose we'd gone crazy. but Ephie only ma es fun of him. Ephie is an extremely pretty girl. and she will soon be quite spoilt. he must ta e the consequences--that's all. But this is something different. . She won't see what a grave matter it is to him. was li ely to be carried through. We haven't been away six months yet--and when Mr. and immature. Joan. why. There is nothing whatever the matter with the child. and it will be the same wherever we go. in a heartless way. Joan. I constantly hear it said that this is an enervating place. "That is all very well. You needn't be jealous. Joan. "But I don't thin your arguments are sound if we find that Ephie is really sic . You can't put old heads on young shoulders. Joan. and everything. and where we have at last gotten us a few friends. Cayhill laughed. . he has been ma ing himself ridiculous. at Mr. Cayhill. ." Mrs. that's what it is. or shut them up in separate houses. "I have noticed it for some time now. I thin the air here is not agreeing with her. "Young people will be young people. no one will be more pleased for Ephie or more interested than I. ." continued Johanna unmoved. I am sure. and health is the first and chief----" "Go home?" cried Mrs." She spo e with heat. for instance. As for going home.--As for young Dove. She begins to li e the fuss and attention so well that----" "You had your chances too. They thin so. and needs a change. and to ma e so much of it! A                                           . Absurd!--a boy and girl flirtation. Dove! I don't want to say anything against him. Cayhill."--Johanna had blushed for Dove on the occasion of his last visit. But for some time now.' as you call them." persisted Johanna. "No one could be more in earnest than he is.

" said Johanna in her coolest tone. with complacent moc ery. Tully. in secret. and laid her hands with stoc ing and needle on the table. Why. too root and grew. she could not but be struc by the strangeness of his demeanour: his distracted silence. though you do thin yourself so clever. and was she. I am expecting a few friends. Joan." "Ephie is practising. a change had also come over Ephie's mode of treating Maurice. is it not?--to your sitting-room. with the same air of wisdom. she new. "Yes. and the expression with which he had watched her. on matters of this nature. Mrs. "Just for that very reason. as usual.mountain of a molehill. You did yourself. "Oh. In the passage. but she had had no suspicions of Maurice Guest. Yet. when she loo ed bac on his visit of the previous evening. whom she disli ed. would find more to object to in the way young Guest behaves than Dove. she ran into the arms of Mrs." After this. His manner with Ephie had hitherto been that of a brother: he had never behaved li e the rest. Miss Cayhill!" she now exclaimed. who. WHERE is your sister? I want SO much to as her if she will have tea with me this afternoon. at his prolonged absences. and should be so glad if she would join us. Johanna went methodically on with her darning. you only imagine things. Tully. ever since coming to the PENSION. "I was just groping my way--it is indeed groping. this lady had carried on a ind of cult with Ephie. his efforts to spea to Ephie alone. for. I'm sure you are mista en. All girls go through the same thing. or if he has no position to offer. "He has been here so seldom of late. anxious to conceal it from him? Johanna gathered up her wor to go to her own room and thin the matter out in private." she added after a pause. Cayhill. it's only to be expected. had so pained her sister. At her age."                                                 . And half the time." replied Mrs. girl-li e." repeated Mrs." "Maurice Guest?" said Johanna. and don't see what is going on under your very nose. Cayhill." "Oh." said Johanna earnestly. And Ephie?--what of her? Now that Johanna thought of it. Strange that it had not occurred to her before! Dove's state of mind had been patent from the first. if he sees that his feelings are not returned. was extremely sensitive. the gay insouciance of the early days had given place to the pert flippancy which. thin ing aloud. You now very well what I mean. but the new idea which her mother had dropped into her mind. you're not sharp enough. she too up her boo again. Joan. Just loo at the way he went on last night! Every one but you could see what was the matter with him. and was silent from sheer surprise. Mrs. Anyone but you. "Do you thin no one has eyes but yourself?--No. Tully told me about it afterwards. I'm sure. successfully silenced her daughter. What had brought about this change? Was it pique? Was Ephie chafing. having.--And another thing I'll tell you. Maurice Guest. You don't need to worry if Ephie is odd and fidgety sometimes just now. "And I cannot have her disturbed. he never too his eyes off her. only the night before. "A nice-minded young man stays away. which was distasteful in the extreme to Johanna.

however. once more. but as idle as to-day. Yet what if the child were fretting? What if he did not care? A pang shot through her at the thought that any outsider should have the power to ma e Ephie suffer. into her own room. she had never been. were all. one might say. and impelled by a curiosity to observe her sister in a new light. she would ma e him care!--she would tal to him as he had never been tal ed to in his life before. she rose and opened the door. or of stating what she considered to be the facts of the case. Oh. letting her eyes rest on Johanna's head. Tully with enthusiasm. which she held by the nec . and at my age. she. and they had ended far from where they had begun: further." she said. But her hands soon fell to her lap. and hastily raised the instrument to her shoulder. which often proved right where Johanna's carefully drawn conclusions failed. and shut the door. it is true. "I always remar to myself on hearing her. "I have always worn my hair li e this."She is so very.--And you. and supporting herself on the table by her violin. "If only you would let your hair grow. Maurice and Ephie! She could not reconcile the one with the other. how very idle a life li e mine is in comparison. Johanna. As so often before.                                       . I am able to do SO little. too. Johanna had. Ephie was standing with her bac to it. when it came to the point. and with her eyes on the bac s of the neighbouring houses. but of emphatically giving her opinion. she threw a quic . staring out of the window. dear Miss Cayhill. in spite of her preoccupation. her mother's idea had bro en in upon her li e a flash of light. She sat down by the window to sew. I have no talents." said Mrs." and leaving Mrs. it would ma e such a difference to your appearance. Johanna drew herself up. very diligent. "Than s. when she had wanted to pin her mother's attention to a subject. Tully protesting vehemently at such false modesty. Here. so clever! I hear of you on every side. the centre of interest had shifted in spite of her efforts. gradually. though. Johanna did not respond. First. necessary to pilot Ephie through the two hours that were her daily tas . she continued her interrupted reflections." said Mrs. encouragement. instinctive hits and guesses. but not a sound came from the room. a little atom of good. she started. not of as ing advice or of faithfully discussing a question. So studious. Coaxing. The sisters' rooms were connected by a door." and. with disconcerting outspo enness. just a mere trifle here and there. and sometimes even severity. and. grew very red. even though she could not immediately bring herself to accept it. had a way. Tully suddenly. acquired a certain faith in her mother's opinions--these blind. From an odd mixture of experience and self-distrust. At Johanna's entrance. she went past her. Johanna could not but become aware how bro enly Ephie was practising. sarcastic side-glance on her mother and herself. have no intention of altering it. she wondered why the girl wore her hair so unbecomingly. What could she be doing? Johanna listened intently.

what do you now about it?" "Not much. So you can get rid of it. go away. and laid bow and fiddle on the table.         Ephie sat bac . But after this. How can I practise when you stand there tal ing?" Johanna was silent. "Let me see--what was it now? Something about this double-stopping here. Dresden--or Weimar--or Stuttgart--where you could ta e lessons just as well. but her eyes grew vigilant. Joan! I am quite well. It all depends. "Now it's you who are wasting time." Johanna loo ed down at the little figure with the plump. And now. you won't have the ETUDE ready by Friday. there is no need for you to go on with it. and she had turned to leave the room when she remembered her meeting with Mrs. li e a good girl. to the next I am of them. "But try and master it. We can return home. there are plenty of other places. You are tired of being here. Joan! The all ali e--a whole boo her hands behind her head. I don't thin you are very well. and then regretted having said it. You have not been yourself lately. I admit. "Have you remembered everything he pointed out to you at your last lesson?" as ed Johanna. dear. Ephie? You are wasting a great deal of time." said Johanna pleasantly. in spea ing to her little sister." she said. Sometimes. and she tried to find in the childish face something she had previously not seen there. and peering at the pages with her shortsighted eyes. going over to the music-stand.--I don't even now whether I shall be ready by spring. seizing the opportunity offered for a brea ."What are you doing." said Ephie nonchantly. dear. if you only new how sic next won't be a bit better than this. she did not venture to mention Maurice's name. she sat down. I thin it would be better if we did."                                         ." said Johanna in the tone of mild reproof that came natural to her. any day. white arms. But nothing shall induce me to go." She too up her violin and put it on her shoulder. and. and wish you wouldn't tease me. child. "Yes. And I still have heaps to learn before I leave off studying. "Old Joan." "I not myself?--not well? What rubbish you tal . Tully. "Oh. clasped sigh. "I would rather you did not go to tea." "He can if he li es. Ephie." she ended. and discontented expression. "Are you tired of studying. and the fingering in this position. "Oh. Ephie?" she as ed. "Would you li e to leave off and go away?" "Go away from Leipzig? Where to?" Ephie did not unclasp her hands. They are of them. I love old Leipzig. and gave a long one. and Herr Bec er will ma e you ta e it again--for the third time." Ephie laughed. I guess you want to go away yourself. I guess I don't care. Or if you are tired of studying altogether. Joan. and go on to something else. "Is anything the matter to-day? If you don't practice better than this.

I shouldn't have gone. you might really ta e more pains with your German. he had a headache or something. you see. Joan. in spite of her mother's comforting assurances." "You didn't thin that as long as he came to see us." sang Ephie. To my mind. This style is quite out in London. I now what her 'few friends' means. I can't bear Boehmer." expostulated Johanna. Meanwhile. where. it's overtrimmed. as always. a hat which Johanna had not yet seen. too--just Boehmer. "And if you can understand and remember a word li e that. I'm only for show. her laughter was so loud as to grate on Johanna's ear." "Ephie. she says. Not that I'd have gone anyway. That afternoon. and she ma es them bac . I don't care for it much. She's going to show me a new way to do my hair. "Why don't you say something. of course not. And I'm not the only one. It is not impossible for you to learn." "Don't let her touch your hair. and she made him lie on the sofa. I thin she's lovely. Johanna was silent. Mrs. Johanna awaited his arrival with impatience. "No. Joan?" she cried crossly. Tully uttered. I do. and considered herself in the loo ing-glass. why it's just embarrassing. retired in a pet to her own room. The last afternoon. and all the cries of admiration her mother and Mrs. I want to now why you feel so about Mrs. Now that she new Maurice was expected that afternoon. It couldn't be better than it is. The other day I heard Frau Walter and Frau von Baerle tal ing in the dining-room after dinner. Ephie was not sure whether she li ed it or not. A new hat had been sent home. as they sat together at tea. who for some time had considered Ephie fondly. when she put it on. said: "I can't understand you                                                 . Tully.--And sometimes. and laughed. so she could bathe his head with eau-de-cologne. and this unspo en disapproval irritated Ephie." "Joan the preacher. "I thin Mrs. but afterwards. Tully is real ind. But Ephie turned her head this way and that. a trifle sufficed to put her out of temper. in their own sitting-room."That's another of your silly prejudices. and twirls his moustache. and she as s me along so people will thin he comes to see me. and ma es eyes at her. and not her. with a rug over him. she taunted Johanna with old-fashioned." said Johanna quic ly. Joan. and Joan the teacher. Cayhill. and Joan the wise old bird." This was so precisely Ephie's own feeling that she was more annoyed than ever. I don't li e to hear you repeat such foolish gossip. she believed she was not wrong in thin ing Ephie unusually excited. and. He sits there. At dinner. "I suppose you thin it's homely?" "Fran ly. dear. No. and they said the little English widow was very HEIRATSLUSTIG. He's such a goat. Now that it had come. I promised Maurice to go for a wal with him at five. I guess she's going to marry him. were necessary to reassure her. why. the elderly boarders made a great fuss over her. countrified tastes. But so he only comes to see her." said Johanna in real distress.

I shall stop. Anywhere. and found nothing to say. "Where? Oh. without delay. which was beginning to show more and more clearly in everything Ephie said. This treatment cowed Ephie. "Now what has Joan been saying about me?" she as ed angrily. I never saw her loo better. and. "Have you noticed anything strange about Ephie lately? She is not herself. "He wants to spea to her. But he did not face Johanna. and he held the photograph he was loo ing at upside down. laughing good-humouredly. She leaned out of the window to watch them wal along the street. Johanna had left the table. Joan."                                         . I don't now." She got up from the table. so she wants to. You don't want to go away. "Where do you thin of going for a wal ?" she as ed. and went to a window. the young man soon grew nervous. really. He sat and fidgeted. Cayhill. and was reading on the sofa. she must not lose the chance of sounding him a little. where she stood biting her lips. But was no one but herself awa e to the change that was ta ing place in the child. when this failed."       thin ing she isn't well. but Maurice was most persistent: he begged Ephie not to disappoint him. She could have wept: not only at the spirit of rebellious disli e. and ma e him insist on their returning to America. and she nows it. and paying small attention to her mother's elaborate protests that she." He had noticed nothing. and is trying to avoid it. At   "I only said what I repeated to yourself. I won't. But she was alone with Maurice. Even if you both go away. That I didn't thin you were loo ing well. darling. and. Johanna did not raise her eyes from her boo . "Just fancy. do you?" "No. said angrily that she had no business to bring him there for such capricious whims." said Mrs. with a voice in which tears and exasperation struggled for the mastery. under her scrutiny." said Johanna to herself. too." She coughed." cried Ephie. day by day? She would write to her father. to the ROSENTAL--or the SCHEIBENHOLZ--or along the river. From the moment Maurice entered the room. I'm happy here. Ephie. and her voice had an odd tone to her ears. and she went at once to put on her hat and jac et. Joan is too bad.Ephie went crimson. Ephie was wayward: she did not thin she wanted to go out. Even bac home to America. it loo ed li e rain. she did not ta e her eyes off him. She can't leave us alone--never! Let her go away. "She always has some new fad in her head. Johanna refrained from interfering. I love being here. and her heart beat fast for both of them. had no intention of being moved. "she was saying we ought to leave Leipzig and go to some strange place. I'm afraid she is not well.

and before they had gone far. she was much disturbed. she was fully convinced of the correctness of her mother's assumption. as a schoolgirl loo s at the master with whom she ventures to remonstrate. "Why did I let her go?--Oh. During the rest of the afternoon. and Johanna strained her eyes.this moment." But she was not really cross. threatening to rain. Yes. and loo ed at him with a touch of defiance. She did not intend him to see it. as she observed it more nearly. "Joan was so stupid about it. She hasn't a scrap of taste. unsullied charm of a flower just blown. and didn't become me. Men are so stupid. too. Maurice. but he did not see the hat. she found the stillness disconcerting. but he did. to-day. radiantly pretty. and turned to her. "I as ed you before how you li ed my hat. eight o'cloc . she could not command. and at eleven. Ephie was pretty. with the fresh. I guess you haven't loo ed at it. her face still wore its uncertain smile." Maurice turned his head. "And you didn't say. Cayhill grew anxious. You're in such a hurry. it was supper-time. he mentally answered a question Louise had put to him the day before. And as for you." she went on at random. after a messenger had been sent to Maurice's lodging and had found no one there she buttoned on her rain-cloa . and by the thought of what might ta e place within the next hour. As if she ever wore anything that suited her! But Joan is an old maid. mild day. and still Ephie had not come home. But it struc six. shot a furtive loo at her companion. But Ephie was not accustomed to be silent. Maurice and Ephie wal ed along the LESSINGSTRASSE without spea ing--it was a dull. At nine and at ten. I'm a dull companion. all other feelings were swallowed up by the uneasiness she felt at his manner of treating her. seven. Something in his face." Again they went forward in silence. Mrs. He cleared his throat. and which he had then not nown how to meet. made Ephie change colour and give an aw ward laugh. and top-heavy. then changed his mind. as it had rained the whole of the preceding night. "Yes. to accompany one of the servants to the police-station." she said. "You are tiresome to-day. with another attempt at the airiness which. watching the dar street. why I just don't believe you now one hat from another. Instead." "Knowing it doesn't ma e it any better.                                     . she found it impossible to settle to anything. unable even to read. "She said it was overtrimmed." she said at length. and she wandered from one room to another. and seemed about to spea . why did I let her go!" IV. she was pacing the room.

" "Yes. "Why don't you loo where you're going? How clumsy you               "Afterwards. quieted down at once. and her heart. Why do you as ?" "Gracious. say. Now. The only thing to do was to ta e the matter into her own hands. I would say?" she as ed abruptly. But people who play in the PRUFUNGEN then. it was now or never. the same thing had happened to her before. stepped into a puddle. in his turn. that's all. He turned on her. Maurice. Now that she is getting better. which had begun to thump at the mention of a friend. that Schils y's name would not be mentioned. with a lame effort at explanation.. do many people go away from here in the fall?--leave the Con. Again and again he had tried to imagine how it would fall out. "Loo !--loo what you've done!" she cried. Ephie was extremely annoyed. His chief remaining hope was that there would be no open spea ing. with a little quic upward note in her voice. she needs up. sometimes stay for the summer term. But he did not now Louise well enough to foresee how she would act. and plump into the midst of this hope fell Ephie's question. at this moment. and. and I said I would her. how tiresome you are! Must one always say why? I only wanted to now. she coloured furiously. and simply a question of courage. but she had not ta en many steps forward before she was telling herself that another hope was gone. and that ind of thing. he had been lost in his own thoughts. "Ephie. however. I now has been very rousing and cheering bring you to call on now you personally. "No. the stronger grew his presentiment of trouble. she was greatly relieved. "I mean is this a time more people leave than in spring?" Maurice started. who had been attracted by her fresh young face." He was so occupied with what they were saying that he. "I am ta ing you to see a friend--of mine. that she new the object of their wal . splashing the water up over her shoe."Where are we going?" she suddenly demanded of him. showing him her spi ey little shoe. I missed people I used to see about. and wal ed into a pool of water. Easter is the general time for leaving. It's li e this. a number have not come bac . perhaps."--he cleared his throat anew. "This is not the way to the SCHEIBENHOLZ. She nows you by sight--and would li e to added." He had been waiting for the question." "Is that what you brought me out for? Then you didn't want to spea to me. as you said? Then we're not going for a wal ?" "Is that so?" said Ephie with sudden indifference. Some one ill. "Maurice. which all centred round this meeting he had wea ly agreed to arrange. everything was as clear to Maurice as though she had said: "Where is be? Why has he gone?" "Why do you as ?" he queried with unconscious sharpness." "No. as if a near danger had been averted. and the nearer the time came. she saw an elderly lady with shawls and a footstool." he                                           . In fancy.

which was hidden by the brim of the big hat. He came bac after the vacation to settle his affairs. he had a quic revulsion of feeling." But Ephie did not reply. in a sudden burst of illhumour: "I don't now why you're bringing me here. which. It's a horrid part of the city anyway. she as ed. however. What's the matter with you to-day that you don't now your own mind for two minutes together?" "You didn't inquire if I wanted to come. "Yes. he should have tried to win her confidence with brotherly indness. afraid she might still escape him. the colour had left her face. came the nowledge of what his words meant: he new--Maurice new. all the same." he said." "And you're a capricious child. She grew dizzy under these blows that rained down on her." said the young man at her side. Instead of being rough and cruel to her. As he stood aside to let her pass before him. when the last chance she had of getting definite information was passing from her. with an earnestness which. very ill--and needs treating with the utmost consideration. which was all the stronger because she suspected that she was on the brin of hearing her worst suspicions confirmed." He quic ened his pace. there would be reproaches and recriminations. Ephie. I didn't have any desire to come. through the house-door in the BRUDERSTRASSE. and say good-bye to his friends. at present. Maurice. Is there anything else you want to now?" He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. she would be loc ed up. And meanwhile." "I don't care. a few steps behind. and now there was no more time. there arose in her a strong feeling of resentment against Maurice. was fatally tale-telling: "Did anyone you were acquainted with leave. and the droop of her arms and shoulders. he had seen through her fictions. but there was something pathetic in the line of her chin. But she could not afford to yield to the feeling. for he himself suffered under her continued hedging. As for what lay beyond. her mind could not grasp. without a word to her--that was a sic ening possibility. to one who new. Maurice?" "Yes. I rely on your tact and good-feeling. one after the other. a violinist." "But you shall. his assertion that Schils y had been there--had been and gone. and Ephie had hard wor to eep up with him. She seemed to shrin under his words--to grow smaller. I don't want to go. After all. and that was a man called Schils y--a tall.are!" and. or ta en away." "We're almost there now. As she trotted along. Knitting both hands firmly inside her muff. He remained untouched by the tone of appeal in which Ephie put the question. he would tell on her. Then. red-haired fellow. But he had had room in his mind for nothing but the meeting with Louise. "some one did. I guess I'll turn bac and go home. All he could do was to say gently: "I ought to tell you. that the person we are going to see has been very. and for once. with brusque determination. she had to eep up                                               . For some minutes amazed anger with Maurice was all she felt. You're just horrid. But he has only just gone. the short upper-lip closed firmly on the lower one. there would be dreadful scenes with Joan. He could not see her face. they were going up the stairs. Ephie was such a child.

and drawing bac from the girl's outstretched hand. I want to see her face. "I've brought her. Ephie. yet without seeming to see it. as if she were fearful of letting her eyes stray.                       . and went over to the window. Holding a tiny lace hand erchief to her eyes. and waited for the name to be filled in. and as they entered. with a stony fare. and with a ind of appeal in voice and eyes.appearances. This was the last straw. a figure sprang up from the sofa-corner. "Ephie!" said Maurice warningly. For she had recognised Louise at once. to go on as though nothing had happened. there was a peculiar clic ing in her throat." he said in a low tone. Louise answered the loo . She was still standing where Maurice had left her. and went on loo ing at him. where she stood with her bac to them. Both turned at an exclamation from Ephie. But she let him draw her forward to where Louise was standing. He was apprehensive of what she might do next. "Miss--?" she said in a small voice. and her right hand fumbled with the doorhandle. but. "As her to ta e her hands down. she felt that she was in a trap. and the person who had entrapped her was Maurice. I don't now her name. and hiding her face in her hands." he replied as though spea ing to a child. burst into the tears she had hitherto restrained. which she could not master. Her eyes opened wide. when it seemed impossible even to drag herself to the top of the winding flight of stairs. life came into it. too her by the arm. at Ephie's gesture. "I can't. she turned with a hasty movement. As if in answer to his fear. going over to her. and. "Say. but her face was flaming. At the glass of the door. she felt at every step as if she would have to burst out crying. Maurice." said the young man. and at the wizened old face that appeared behind it. which he was not himself aware of." she said under her breath. He was afraid she would turn the handle. and she held out her hand. close beside the door." she whispered. she sobbed as though her heart would brea . Louise had watched them whispering. Ephie dropped on a chair. "Come with me. "Don't cry. I'm going home. don't cry. Oh. In his agitation the young man forgot to noc ." An inborn politeness struggled with Ephie's dread."             Maurice went over to Louise and too her hand. she crossed the room." But his thoughts were with Louise. She held her head down. "I can't stop here. Her previous trouble was increased a hundredfold. why did you bring me?" "Ssh!--be a good girl. and she followed Maurice mechanically along the passage to a door at the end. dear. "It's all right. and made a few impulsive steps towards them. she loo ed with unseeing eyes.

and the minutes seemed hours. Louise too the young girl's face in both hands. And then. if necessary. "What right have you to spea to me li e this?" She could say no more. and as Ephie did not obey. that clung. unforeseen movement. and retreating behind the writing-table. He shrugged his shoulders: he could do nothing. the elder girl passionately admired such may-blossom beauty. the fascinating baby mouth. Maurice watched. she became the man whose tastes she new better than her own. arch and smiling. and turned it up. in the street--something fair and round. He had not been able to help what had happened: this was the prettiness that drew him in. and rose in spite of herself. she saw with his eyes. lifted to his. he had only had a passing fancy. Nothing escaped her. with a ind of madness." said Louise in an unfriendly voice. adorably small and young. do you hear? Loo up. For her dar sallowness. was actually in the room beside her--it was just as though a nightmare phantom had ta en bodily form. he left the two girls to themselves. felt with his senses. modelled as if in wax. At the entrance of her visitors. the pin and white colouring of the chee s. "No. li e a good girl. she ceased to be herself. for. as something belonging to a different race from herself. though she had spent each of these hours in picturing to herself what this girl would be li e. she could not reconcile the differences. "Stand up. and the loo Louise gave the young man was cold and questioning. she made a movement to ta e her by the wrists. "Ephie. And after her first instinctive effort to draw bac . with its short upper-lip. dear.           . and she understood and excused his wea ness. whose own brief freshness is past. on the alert to intervene." cried Ephie. Louise had been unable to see distinctly. She pictured Ephie's face. And this was not all: as she continued to loo into Ephie's face. when it did not matter. and touched her shoulder. their eyes met. saw the finely mar ed brows. In a burst of despair she let her arms fall to her sides. but her                                                               But Ephie shoo off his hand. were two different things.Maurice bent over Ephie. sallow women. the reality was so opposed to her imagining that. and spea to Miss Dufrayer. for her wilful mastery. Now she forced herself to see every line of the face. li e a fascinated rabbit. She was not his type. Seconds passed into minutes. and to now it at a moment li e the present. Ephie ept still. She saw how loosened tendrils of hair on nec and forehead became little curls. too. no!--don't touch me. the ind he had invariably turned to loo bac at. and was childishly subordinate." Over her bowed head. please. so stupefied was she by the thought that the person on whom her thoughts had run. the small nose. her eyes fixed on the dar face that loo ed down at her. But to have nown it vaguely. for more than forty-eight hours. Li e most dar . with a quic . something to be petted and protected. at first. and the dar blue veins at the temples. and she new it.

he never spo e of you. "How could I? I didn't now anything about you." wept Ephie. a second entrance to the room--" here's the door he came in at. But if I beat her with ropes till all my strength was gone. and Ephie. where a small door. . a spasm of jealousy caught her by the throat." sobbed Ephie. gave. You didn't now. The spell was bro en. And the eyes. Ephie went hot and cold beneath them. "No. And you plotted. I can believe that! And you thought." she too Ephie by the shoulder and drew her behind the screen. Louise saw the changing colour. to spoil these lips that had been issed by his. no. At the thought of it." "I? I hurt you?" said Ephie. that he only cared for you? That was why my name was never mentioned. papered li e the wall. with her face raised.insatiable eyes gazed on." Louise laughed. of course not!--didn't now this was his room as well as mine. passed to the rounded. and planned. not many days ago. and began to cry afresh. no. without reflection. here. whenever he chose." "It's not true. and contrive. ." "No. I shall not hurt her. though she was now free. having ta en in the curves of chee s and chin." sobbed Ephic. "Don't hurt her. "Hurt her?" she repeated faintly. "How could I? I don't even now you. drooping shoulders. and stole him from me--with your silly baby face. that's the chair he sat in. she felt as if her clothes were being stripped from her. didn't you. embracing the whole body in their devouring gaze." "Hush! Don't say such things. as a child clutches at sunbeams.                                       now . instinctively. greedily. and not clutch at it. I couldn't hurt her as she has hurt me. and she left standing na ed. and interpreted it in her own way. in a silly fascination. lie abominably." he said." "Oh. indeed. "Never! And you've no right to say such things of him. to the plumpness of the girlish figure. and yet you have done me the cruellest wrong. "No. no. did not stir. too. "No right to say what I li e of him? Are you going to tell me what I shall say and what I shan't of the man I loved?--yes. His--all his! He was not the mortal--she new it only too well--to have this flower within his reach. Loo . He didn't need to scheme. but remained standing. but in a way you couldn't understandyou who thin all you have to do is to smile your silly smile. and spoil another person's life.--For he came as he li ed. The unnatural expression died out of her face. you don't now me. and the soft white throat. she was tired and apathetic. indeed!" "He was all I had--all I cared for. "Oh. his music is still lying on the piano. He . direct from the stair-head. don't be afraid. and did not how the words came to his lips. you poor little fool." "I no right?" Louise drew herself up. for fear I should come to hear what he was doing!" "No. and who loved me."   Maurice was at her side. her hanging hands trembled to hurt this infantile prettiness. and lie. It would riot have been in nature for him to do otherwise than ta e.

He heard the hall-door bang behind her."It's not true. her breath came more and more quic ly. He was not clear himself what to do next. but without success. And now the merest trifles helped to increase the paroxysm--the way Maurice wor ed his hands. let us go. the laughter ceased. "I want to go home." said Ephie. and stood by the writing-table. On his approaching her. Ephie cowered in her seat. He was watching Louise. I'll come soon. Ephie cried with renewed bitterness. and Ephie's tears dried through pure fear." But Maurice did not pay any attention to her. and saw Maurice pale and concerned. with a growing dismay. She gasped for breath. He went up to her and tried to ta e her hands. Her whole body began to sha e. and raised her tear-stained face defiantly. For she continued to laugh. He too both her hands in his. and let her hands go again. with a catch in the throat. loo ing dazed. Maurice. "Oh. and stood with her bac to the others. the landlady's inquisitive face peering in at the door. Miss Dufrayer--Louise! Every one in the house will hear you. and pressed her down on a chair. but still she had to laugh on. she tried to chec herself. he thought she would cho e. as if she did not understand. She pressed them to her throat. I'm so afraid. but. the moment he touched her. Then the tears came. and sat down on the edge of the bed. He moved as far away from her as he           "He's coming bac to marry you!" echoed Louise in a blan coming bac to marry you!"                                   voice. her eyes closed. and pressed her hand erchief to them. she hid her face in the cushioned seat of the sofa. She went behind the low. "Do try to control yourself. She wiped her lips. which made the laughter sound li e sobbing. with the efforts she made at repression. She held her face in her hands. The laugh continued. for they shoo with a nervous convulsion. but she could not stop laughing. He's coming bac to marry me soon. Then she laughed. and what tears! In all his life." Ephie did not need twice telling: she turned and fled. and falling forward on her nees. but the sight of these two made her laugh more violently than before." She moved a few steps away. Ephie's muff lying forgotten on a chair. but he was too strong for her. "Don't be frightened! It's all right. When he did happen to notice Ephie more closely. "He's   . Maurice had never heard crying li e this. though it had become a ind of cac le--a sound without tone. broad screen that divided the room. She came out again into the other part of the room." But he was following Louise about the room." she implored him. and wait for me there. and pressed her jaws together as though she would brea them. She crossed to the window. it can't be true. entreating her to regain the mastery of herself. "We are engaged--since the summer. She repulsed him. in a breathless way. then too the hand erchief between her teeth and bit it." But she only laughed the more. Maurice could bear it no longer. he said: "Go downstairs.

She had turned at random. and laid it on the seat beside her. but he did not dare. Ephie grew confused. which it is so hard to hear. and even when in the street. * * * * * Ephie ran down the stairs as if a spectre were at her heels. and after a time she found that she had crossed the river. without life. and she was in a part of the town she did not now. But. The tears rose to his own eyes. and more blunted. he too an eider-down quilt from the bed. a change came over her crying. Since teatime. She was fast asleep. and the one overruling desire is the desire to be comforted. staring out and biting his lips. Her first sensation was one of relief at being alone. with the utter abandon of a child. too. too. She unpinned and too off the big. to lay his hand on her head. and some little boys ran with her. enjoying to the full the luxury of being unwatched and unheard. there was another note of childishness in it. Instead of dropping her pace when she saw this. she still lay without ma ing sound or movement. The rebellion died out of it. she wept rebelliously. and then she cried. and the tears wet on her chee s. But as. In her eagerness to get away from people. He hesitated between a wish to see her in a more comfortable position. in order to be more at her case. did not venture to slac en her speed. Then these. with her head on the cushions.could. a good deal of notice was attracted by the sight of a well-dressed young girl running along. and. she seemed to have been fighting her tears. in all intensely passionate grief. little by little. People stood and stared after her. she new. lay the woods. and wrapped it round her. exercising a self-restraint that was new to her and                                       . Her strength was almost gone. heartily. when the grief and its origin are forgotten. and every now and then emitting a loud sob. unchastenedly. ceased. she would be safe. and without precautions. Li e a child. if once she were in their shelter. stood at the window. while she sobbed. had nothing to do with reason or the reasoning faculties. and treat her tenderly. Had he done so. and soon she was only sha en at widening intervals by a sob. on coming out of the house. and the words were not invented that would be able to soothe it. half lying. she too any turn that offered. so long as they are masterful and strong. holding a hand erchief to her face. it grew duller. to ma e her cease and be happy once more. no matter who the comforter and what his means. Finally. for. she ran towards them at full speed. heavy hat. so absolute a despair. without stopping to consider that night was falling. half sitting. Although the dus was rapidly passing into dar . Now. after a considerable time had elapsed. then slipped noiselessly from the room. she might not have repelled him. and an unwillingness to disturb her. A little further off. It was past eight o'cloc . that of complete exhaustion. as he could not have believed it possible for a grown person to cry. however. On the first seat she came to she san breathless and exhausted. Such grief as this. and ran more quic ly than before. hopeless. She grew calmer. and was on what was almost a country road. he would have li ed to go to her. and Maurice held his breath. he crossed the room to loo at her. regardless of his presence. there comes a moment of subsidence.

and that she was all by herself in the woods. But not for anything in the world would she have ventured bac to fetch it. and with swollen face. at the thought of their grief. It had begun to drizzle. Maurice's discovery. the nowledge that Schils y had gone away without a word to her. and not to-day alone--oh. If it had been only her mother. and exposed her to Joan's comments. Then. she became aware that it was pitch-dar . she was absolutely alone. at the picture of herself lying drowned. and here she wandered up and down. she was so moved that she wept aloud again. exhausting themselves in conjectures where she could be. Not even in her bed at night had she been free to indulge her grief. loo s and words. and she wept on till those who cared for her. worst of all. It was late. and when this grew too wet. the never-ceasing need of dissimulation. Oh. she would need to bear inquisitive. or. she began to cry anew. All over: he would never put his arm round her again. she remembered that she had left her hat lying on the seat. and did not stop running till the street-lamps came into sight. or. careless and smiling. quiet street. Ephie was very hungry. the whole PENSION would get to now what had happened to her. at this hour. and cheerless. She too to her heels. she had been obliged to act a part. li e the Christian Martyr. she raised the s irt of her dress to her face. what if she went down the steps and threw herself in?--and she feebly fingered at the gate. hatless. and at the thought of the warmth and light of the supper-table.very hard. She crossed the Pleisse and came to a dar . floating away on the surface. And there were so many things to cry about: all the emotional excitement of the summer. she might have faced her--but Joan! Home in this plight. if she cried then. with dan hair. she would have to explain. and most inexplicable. When she was under their friendly shine. and of what use were they now. She had read of people drowning themselves. and amost ran to be out of temptation's way. she held her fur tippet across her eyes to receive the tears as they fell. and at the idea of her warm. still worse. to meet Joan's eyes and questions!--she shivered at the idea. Joan in particular. and then all of them. of a sudden. and call her his "little. where few people were. a lump rose in her throat. to invent and tell stories again. She stood and loo ed at the in y water of the river between its stone walls. and could see people wal ing on the other side of the river. it made her pale and heavy-eyed next day. Ephie's tears flowed with renewed vigour. Everything was blea . whose chief wish was to eep grief from her. soft body touching the icy water. and blac . Not a sound was to be heard but her sobbing. Her hand erchief was soa ed and useless. when she was startled to her feet by a loud rustling in the bushes behind her. with its ups and downs of hope and fear. never come towards her. She would perhaps die of the cold. for wee s past. how tired she was! And she was obliged                                                   . Moreover. at home they would be sitting at supper now." She sobbed to herself as she wal ed. the gnawing uncertainty caused by Schils y's silence. How long she had been there she did not now. the growing sense of blan ness and disappointment. of HIM wringing his hands over her corpse. would hardly have recognized in her the child they loved. little girl. no. Joan's suspicions. the terrible visit of the afternoon--at the remembrance of the madwoman she had escaped from. for. and. At this fresh misfortune. in a panic of fear. would be filled with remorse. But it was loc ed and chained. when all was over? A feeling of lassitude overcame her--an inability to begin fresh.

I have something important to tell him. Oh. in petticoat and night-jac et. I must see him. In a long. He would be good to her. having given one loo round the shabby room. and a woman's face peered out at her. and meanwhile threw repeated glances at Ephie.--Oh. late at night. if she could but find the street. Ephie rang on a wrong floor. without difficulty. san into a corner of the sofa and hid her face: the coarse browed woman. "Why. but she did not li e to advance too far out of the shadow. At this time of night. and she held the lamp above her head. But she was starving with hunger. . And yielding to a desire to examine more nearly the bare. she inquired the way of a feather-hatted woman. But he was not at home. It sounded li e some one who was drun . Maurice! She new his address. and. for she was roused by angry voices on the floor above. She was wandering the streets li e any outcast. Yes. and a strange man answered her timid inquiry. and the house. damp head and costly furs. She loitered as long as she could over lighting the lamp that stood on the table. without nowing it. and so tired that she could scarcely drag one foot after the other. Could I not wait?" she urged in her bro en German. she had perhaps been in the street already. if Maurice did not live here either. without a hat--and her condition of hatlessness she felt to be the chief stigma. divided between curiosity and indignation at having to rise from bed. giving the voracious eyes time to devour. and sat down on the bottom step of the stairs. certainly. and now she found it. and help her. who had eyed her with an inquisitive stare. till this afternoon. She climbed a flight higher. A neighbouring cloc struc ten. pluc ing up courage. and rang again. The street-door was still open. There was a long and ominous pause. in order to see Ephie better. The stair was poorly lighted. or she would never have been bold enough to ring. to await further developments outside: the holy. she could not go home. and she fled trembling bac to the street. At the thought that her request might be denied her. he had always been ind to her. And so Frau Krause unwillingly withdrew. and full of unsavoury smells. it would not be necessary to explain. And he new what had happened. The heavy words shuffled along.                                             . what would they say if they new what their poor little Ephie was enduring! Her mother--Joan---Maurice! Maurice! The thought of him came to her li e a ray of light. wide street. said Frau Krause. who. even though she wished to. in which her heart beat fast. Herr Guest lived there. she entered a door-way that was not quite so dar as the others. Frau Krause allowed the girl to pass before her into Maurice's room. seemed to her capable of robbery or murder. smooth-faced Herr Guest was a deep one. after all. even if he were. .constantly to dodge impertinently staring men. at this hour of night . In her agitation. Here she must have dozed. A drosch e passed. It turned out that the BRAUSTRASSE was just round the corner. Maurice. Finally. feeling unspea ably small and forlorn. It was to Maurice she would turn. Ephie's courage too its last leap. and she tried to hail it. the glass window was opened. on account of her bare head. She was about to ring a second time. she would drop where she stood. when felt slippers and an oil lamp moved along the passage.

I didn't where to go." But he could ma e little of Ephie's sobbed and hazy version of the story. it can't be!"   "Oh. the impressions of the last few hours had been so intense as to obliterate much of what had gone before. . "Good Lord. help me! There's no one else. Morry! And I didn't now he had gone away--and it wasn't true what I said. a loud exclamation of surprise. was it? Oh. dear. "I thought I would drown myself . and his thoughts had at When he saw Ephie. he never said a word about it. "Oh. Oh. word by word.When Maurice entered. did he?" "Yes. help me--help me. she burst into tears. What's the matter. who would tell her what to do! She sobbed and sobbed. all the same." she wept. indeed!" "You don't mean to say you went to see him. that he was coming bac to marry me soon. yes. and I lost my hat. Oh. The last day I was there. Everything was fixed. Maurice stro ed her hand. "When? How often? Tell me everything. ." "Then he really promised to marry you. hush! Don't cry li e that. . .." Her own words sounded so pathetic that she sobbed piteously. who would ta e care of her. Morry. Morry. oh. He led her bac to the sofa. Morry! . to be beside some one who new. he uttered before eleven. Oh. I only said it to spite her. . and he did not now how sternly. Where have you been? Oh. Oh. "Hush. bro en by such cries as: "Oh. Oh. he can't--oh. child? Tell me what it is--at once--and let me help you. why did you ta e me to that dreadful woman? Did you hear what she said? It wasn't true. Ephie was quite unnerved: after the dar and fearful wanderings of the evening. But we were engaged. Ephie started up from a and disturbed. and caught her breath hysterically. but the water was so blac . what shall I do! Go after him. yes. He came in pale him in the passage with angry room. Morry. He can't leave me li e this. and waited for her to grow quieter. because she said such dreadful things to me. from which she had sprung. no. Morry. oh. Only with perseverance did Maurice draw from her. I thought you would never come. or I shall die!" "Whatever is the matter? What are you doing here?" At his perturbed amazement. . and bring him bac . . Ephie! What on earth are you doing here?" She sprang at his hands. This is no time for fibbing. what shall I do!"                                     now   . he said he would come to New Yor to marry me. still clinging fast to his hands. you've come at last. for Frau Krause had met mutterings about a FRAUENZIMMER in his once leaped fearfully to Louise. oh. And now . But now that she had laid the responsibility of herself on other shoulders. . she herself could not remember clearly now. what shall I do! I can't ever go home again--ever! . He must come bac . shortly bro en sleep. an account of where she had been that evening. "But I didn't now he was going away. Morry. Ephie?--alone?--at his room?" queried Maurice slowly. help me.

As he mounted the stairs a confused sound of voices struc his car. What is Ephie doing at your rooms?" Maurice cleared his throat. "I now Joan." But he gave up urging her. he heard from her breathing that she was asleep. I won't go home. And I'm afraid I must tell it from the beginning. As he said no more. and put no questions. What will she say to me? Oh. There was a light in every window of the PENSION in the LESSINGSTRASSE. "You MUST control yourself." But at the mention of Johanna. What he told YOU wasn't true. Johanna came out to him at once. whom he charged to prevent Ephie in the event of her attempting to leave the house. . Cayhill's sobs stopped abruptly. Miss Cayhill. You've always been ind to me. Cayhill crying noisily." And at Maurice's confident assurance that Johanna would have nothing but love and sympathy for her. the street-door and both doors of the flat stood open. that . and stood a sheet of music before the lamp. "Not Joan. Oh. and several women spo e at once."It was quite true. she shoo her head. She listened stonily to his statement that Ephie was safe at his lodgings. In the passage he ran up against Frau Krause. I am so frightened! She'll ill me. she gradually ceased to sob. and in what seemed to the young man an incredibly short time. don't send me away!" "Don't be a silly child. . well. Crying won't alter things now. He never really cared for anyone but her. But as Maurice made no mien to explain matters further. It's nearly twelve o'cloc . Morry. stro ing her hair. Mrs. let me stay with you. Buttoning up his coat-collar. to shade her eyes. not Joan!" she wailed. what came after was Johanna's business. You now yourself you can't stay here. she wept so heart-rendingly that he was afraid Frau Krause would come in and interfere. I now she will." At this. I fear. "Answer me. They were--were engaged for years. it would never have happened. he heard Mrs. coaxed her to lie down. Ephie. "And now I'm going to ta e you home. that Ephie had a fancy for some one here?"                                     . and when he entered the passage. not his. He covered her up." This was the only reproach he could ma e her. Thin of the state your mother and sister will be in about you. "It's a long and unpleasant story. he hastened through the mistli e rain to fetch Johanna. and sat beside her. "No. on her returning to the sitting-room. Johanna preserved her uncompromising attitude as they wal ed the midnight streets. Ephie. but. she was in hat and cloa . she so far conquered her aversion as to as : "What have you done to her?" The young man's consternation at this view of the case was so evident that even she felt the need of wording her question differently.--You didn't suspect. If you had been fran and candid with us. Ephie flung herself on the sofa again and beat the cushions with her hands. She'll never forgive me.

or letting her now that he did not intend to return. "And how did she hear it?" "At a friend's house. but less surely. a violinist. "And for some one I daresay you have never even heard of--a. ." "What friend?" "A friend of mine. telling how Ephie had waited vainly for news since returning from Switzerland. conscious. to his stammered and ineffectual narrative. without seeing her.." said Maurice with deliberation. I had better be fran with you: the girl this fellow was engaged to for a year or more. Johanna eyed him in astonishment." she said. "What do you mean?" "Even more--an infatuation. and-----" "It is impossible. of the negligence he had been guilty of towards Ephie. a--No. and everywhere she went.   "And Ephie did not now that?"                           ." The elaborate fabric she had that day reared." At this Johanna laughed aloud. And l couldn't--I mean--one can't say a thing li e that without being quite sure----" But here he bro e down.. Then Johanna put the question he was expecting to hear. and had gone away again. and she continued to listen. "That is quite impossible. indeed!" They wal ed on in silence--a hard. fell together about Johanna's ears. until he said that he believed "it" had been "going on since summer. "----and a sort of engagement seems to have existed between them. as never before. you might. I only suspected something--once . And Johanna was not li ely to spare him: there was." "And you new this and never said a word to me?" "I didn't now--not till to-night.At these words. "A fancy!" she repeated incredulously. ." repeated Johanna with vehemence. resentful silence. with the same icy air of disbelief. "I new everything Ephie did. called Schils y. a bitter antagonism to his half-hearted conduct in the tone in which she said: "I stood to Ephie in a mother's place. "And what has all this to do with to-night?" Maurice too up the thread of his narrative again. which were very different from those she had expected. She stared at Maurice as if she doubted his sanity. and how she had only learnt that afternoon that Schils y had been in Leipzig." He shoo his head. They exchanged letters. You might have warned me--oh." "She met him nearly every day. long ago.a man here. indeed.

wrapped his rug round her. at the sight of her sister. "And Ephie has been very foolish. down the stairs. and Johanna held herself pale and erect on the opposite seat. while Maurice bent over Ephie and tried to soothe her. in fact. one thin. . more than once. "Please fetch a drosch e. she was standing in the same position. and saw the ind of stiffening that went through her body. words for excitement. to light her up the dar staircase. And I shall never be able to forgive myself for it--never. there were reasons--I couldn't help it. and threw herself into her mother's arms. while the drosch e jolted over the cobbled streets. everything was just as Maurice had left it. "Yes. unblin ing eyes at the smo y lamp. undecided what to do. in a voice that was hoarse with feeling: "It has been all my fault. Johanna did not grasp said. But there was more to be said--she had worse to learn before Ephie was handed over to her care. . ungloved hand resting on it. . He heard her breath coming quic ly. . Hiding her face. I did not ta e proper care of her. the poverty of wall and door revealed. They entered without noise. he was certain. . Cayhill than. Ephie was limp and heavy going up. what ind of a man Schils y?" the meaning of what he But. and did not spea again till they were almost at his house-door. with a cry. staring with drawn. Maurice struc matches. been at his rooms . Ephie was still crying. "It seems--from what she has told me tonight--that she has been to see this man . but she ept silence." said Johanna. ." Her voice tailed off in a sob. which no one had thought of lowering. except that the lamp had burned too high and filled the room with its fumes. never!" retorted Johanna. and hardly able to form the as ed: "Who . she turned a blan face curiously to him." "No. more than he led her. without loo ing at her. and carried her. after a lengthy search in the night. . and the condition of the stairs. a moment later. . and only Maurice might go near her. . who pressed her face against his shoulder. She mounted the stairs in front of them." he began anew. what .                                       "But you new. was he--this . But I'm afraid I should not be able to ma e you understand. and squared her shoulders. could do a thing li e this . she gave a low cry. . Maurice returned. "Be good enough to drive home with us. Then she said. . and. She remained standing beside the table. burst into loud cries of fear. made Johanna's heart sin still further: to surroundings such as these had Ephie accustomed herself." Johanna said grimly. . He coaxed her to rise. ." said Maurice. and when. and she did not press him further. As Johanna paused. But that Ephic--my little Ephie--the child I--that Ephie could . Ephie started up. And so he sat with his arm round Ephie. but no sooner did she catch sight of Mrs. the disagreeable smells. she sobbed so alarmingly that Johanna did not venture to approach her. I was blind and foolish. as Ephie's sobs showed no signs of abating.It was a hopeless job to try to exonerate himself. and yet too her there?"     . . "Rotten." At first. she rushed from the young man's side.

in the rain-soa ed street. pointed handwriting. but.--At this. it seemed. besides. hitherto unsuspected. which was troublesome at night. and the room itself loo ed unfamiliar. without partings or farewells. Maurice sat beside Johanna on the deep sofa where he and Ephie had wor ed at harmony together. It only amounted to a couple of mar s. "Then I shall not see Ephie again?" queried Maurice in surprise. but. but there was also. she was finished with Maurice Guest. as she no doubt would have done. and left her tired and fretful by day. No. And even if things had come all right in the end. This had been staved off. a trifle thinner of lip. she would never have been able to forgive his spea ing to her of Schils y in the way he had done." That was all she said to Johanna. she had brooded long over his treachery. had she wished it. She had had her hands full. "I never want to see him again. for it had been stripped of all the trifles and fancy things that had given it such a comfortable. and was only the bare. Johanna was as self-possessed as of old. On this. grating cough. home-li e air. on that damp October night."Oh. the eleventh hour. In the woods. a great variety of cabin-trun s and saratogas bloc ed the corridor of the PENSION. Ephie had caught a severe cold. too deceitful for her. Maurice found the drosch e-driver waiting for his fare.--And she cried bitterly. he was too double-faced. But the windows of the room were shut now. The addresses they bore were in Johanna's small. mummy. the last afternoon of the Cayhills' stay in Leipzig. V. A few wee s later. none the less. and the doctor had feared an inflammation of the lungs. lodging-house room once more. with her face turned to the wall. They were travelling direct to the South of France. during her illness. mummy!" Downstairs. she had not as ed to see him. She told him that they intended leaving quietly the next morning. and on her subsequent wanderings. Maurice saw Johanna again for the first time.                                   . Johanna did not thin it worth while to tell Maurice that Ephie bore him an unalterable grudge. the better it would be for her. a latent wea ness of the chest. which ept them anxious. a trifle paler. where they intended to remain until she had quite recovered her strength. and it was no doubt a just retribution for what had happened that he should be obliged to lay it out. it seemed li e the last straw--the last dismal touch--in a day of forlorn discomfort. Ephie still had a dry. Johanna thought not: it would only recall the unhappy night to her memory. Ephie was still wea and the less excitement she had to undergo.

as I said. then Heaven help her!--Now I am not of a disinterested enough nature to devote myself to sic -nursing where there is no real sic ness. But if the care and affection of years count for nothing." continued Johanna. indeed. and Maurice made a movement to rise." She spo e with bitterness. "The house eeper who was appointed during our absence has been found so satisfactory that she will continue in the post after our return. wondering why she should choose to say these things to him. But that is not possible." "Besides. there is all the more reason for me to remain with her. and learnt that as soon as Ephie was well again. with the abruptness of a nervous person: "When I have seen my sister and mother safe bac . if. then burst out: "And now there is nothing in the way of it. instead of to me--why. Maurice mumbled some words of sympathy. he was humanly hurt that Ephie would not even say good-bye to him. if I have been so little able to win her confidence. she turns from me."                                         . you see. Everywhere. they would sail for New Yor . hasn't it?" "Yes. as I told you--as I new that night--I shall never be able to feel for Ephie as I did before. "Oh. to loo after her. But she put out her hand and detained him." And thereupon. there was a long pause." Johanna's manner was uncompromisingly dry and short. to ta e all the blame for what has happened. and did his best to loo interested. and a person of that class will perform such duties much more competently than I. I see that. "Even at home my place is filled. It is no laughing matter. too.--You smile? Only because you do not understand what it means. hesitated as he had never nown her to do." Maurice realised that the girl was telling him a fact of considerable importance to herself. "Really? That's always been a wish of yours. If an American woman once becomes conscious of her nerves. "There is something I should li e to say to you. foolish mother is doing her best to foster it. I am going to Harvard. by my care of her.The young man could not but somewhat lamely agree with Johanna that it was better to let the matter end thus: for he felt that towards the Cayhills he had been guilty of a breach of trust such as it is difficult to forgive. After her last words. He as ed their further plans. I have only succeeded in ma ing her disli e me. as here." Johanna coloured. There. I am ready. I intend leaving home myself. I have proved superfluous. and my poor. as though he had contradicted her. I was blind and careless. so that when she is in trouble. now that Ephie has turned out to be wea and untrustworthy. "My father has cabled twice for us." She drew her thumb across the leaf-corners of a boo that was lying on the table." She faced him sharply. I now what you will say: how. then I have failed lamentably in what I had made the chief duty of my life. "there is another reason: Ephie is going to fall a victim to her nerves. and. my mother intends ta ing a French maid bac with her. At the same time. "I am incapable of pretending to be the same when my feelings have changed. And then." she continued more quietly.

I thin she will be sorry afterwards that she did not see you. and give Ephie my love. Both new this."                   "I'm sure you're mista en. in spite of common experiences! Some of the nights at the beginning of Ephie's illness returned vividly to her mind. That is hardest of all. if it had only been her infatuation for some one who was unworthy of her. had paced her room by the hour. calculating thoughts how she could best deceive me! If there had been but a single sign to wa en my suspicions." "She didn't understand what she was doing. her mother had been told of the whole affair only what it was absolutely necessary for her to now. with a smile. idolised her!--for her to treat me as she did--do you thin it possible to ta e that too seriously? There was no reason she should not have had her little secrets. She had borne it quite alone. And. I could have forgiven Ephie till seventy times seven. after the way I have loved her--no. I thin not."Too seriously?" Johanna turned her shortsighted eyes on the young man." said Johanna. being a man. and where there is no trust there can be no real love. and gazed at him almost pityingly. Don't you here a little too seriously? No doubt it after all any more than a girlish                           . as you call it. then I could have forgiven her. all the time. she was living a double life. "Oh. How little. "Too seriously?" she repeated. Miss li e to say. the young man who now sat at her side. could not be expected to understand. "But that she could deceive me wilfully. after all these years. She has always li ed you. oh. She is so young. but nothing could be helped or mended. even to thin of: that she could wear her dear innocent face. were cold. and again forgot how often of late she had been puzzled by the subtle change in Ephie. So young. and so s illed in deceit. when she. I could never trust her again. "Say good-bye to them both for me. she said to herself. which she would sooner have died than have let cross her lips. naturally enough. Johanna. Maurice rose to ta e his leave. But. "If I could just now that. If she had let me see that something was going on. in spite of the medium of speech. was the least of it." said Joan. filled with a terrible dread. while behind it. how little. when. do you thin I should have forced her?" --and Johanna spo e in all good faith. this horrible fear. and after a few polite questions about her future plans and studies. If that had been all. and lie so lightly. Something has died in me that I used to feel for her. one to my face and one behind my bac --that I cannot forgive. The girlish escapade. then. if I may. forgetful of how she had been used to clip and doctor Ephie's sentiments. "And." "Just for that reason. one mortal new and could now of another. a numbing uncertainty. But was escapade?" Maurice with more warmth. in spite of her efforts. But the consciousness of her isolation made Johanna spea with renewed harshness. nights. in her brain. which she did not want to tell me about. yes." "I will. she had been too candid to succeed!" She had unburdened herself and it had been a relief to her. there's something I should thin you ta e what has happened Ephie behaved foolishly.

and crowding about the carriage-door. And thus Ephie's musical studies came to an abrupt and untimely end. manly air with which he wal ed down the street. * * * * * "My faith in women is shattered. Johanna held the front door open for him. But when the story lea ed out. Dove had called every morning at the PENSION. and could not forgive. this was found wanting." Dove paced the floor of Maurice's room with long and steady strides. which one of the family. Dove was dumbfounded. without flowers or other souvenirs." Johanna had returned to her usual sedate manner. having been put to the test. she had left him as cool as he had no doubt left her. beneath which a particular board crea ed at intervals. he heard it close behind him. The day was misty and cheerless. carrying the Cayhills with it. The next day. At heart she was no more generous and unselfish than the rest. They left unattended. as it soon did." He held Johanna's hand in his. with that extreme noiselessness that was characteristic of Johanna's treatment of it. had connected inseverably with their departure. and the ruddiness of his chee s had paled. I shall never believe in a woman again. so now every one heard               "And that's a long time. "If I do visit Europe again. Not a single sententious phrase crossed his lips."Good-bye then. But he maintained his bearing commendably. The following morning. and now. Johanna had not touched him deeply. as he went down the stairs. neither had found the ey to the other. however. and it was impossible not to admire the upright. At the outset of Ephie's illness. and he remained unashamed of the moisture that dimmed his eyes. a train steamed out of the THURINGER BAHNHOF. His voice was hus y. shortly after ten o'cloc . without any of the demonstratively pathetic farewells. He repeated farewell messages as he stood in the passage. he straightway ceased his visits. the waving of hats. But he could not summon up any very lively feelings of regret. He made no secret of having been hard hit. Who     nows where I may be. Her chief attraction for him had been her devotion to Ephie. Or perhaps it is only AUF WIEDERSEHEN?" "I hardly thin so. it will not be for five or six years at least. he returned. She had been wounded in her own pride and self-love. the news of which was bro en to him by Maurice. and saw her gauntly slim figure outlined against the bare sitting-room. in an exaggerated and distorted form. just as previously he had let his friends into his hopes and intentions. and was silent no longer. by then!"       . at least. and. Thus he was wholly unprepared for the family's hurried departure. It was not li ely that they would ever meet again. to ma e inquiries and to leave his regards. and none of the three travellers turned her head to give the town a parting glance.

And consequently. He said so. and he listened patiently. in his perfectly sincere optimism. had had a touch of the masculine about it: it had existed only as long as it could guide and subordinate. in other words.of his reverses. or." said Maurice. and was implacable when a smaller. it denied to its object any midget attempt at individual life. frailer being found it impossible to live up to them. He had never given them an hour's uneasiness since his birth. the more serious question that Dove had to face was. as ever. on hearing of his dilemma. just on this score. He felt a tremendous need of unbosoming himself. substituted "untrue". and now. As the personal smart wea ened. bordered on indecency. and behaving in the same way to anyone who would let him. even a thought flattered by his confidence. but Dove could not see it in that light. he had acted in the most becoming way. it set up lofty moral standards. he could not help thin ing that Johanna's affection had been of the same nature as Dove's. He had received innumerable proofs of Ephie's regard for him. Maurice sat with his hands in his poc ets. For it now came out that he had represented the affair to them as settled. "I'm sure he needn't let that trouble him. Then he found that the openness with which Dove related his past hopes. he had been so sure of success. Having approached the matter from all sides. At the same time. had laid himself open to receive this snubbing. he had regarded himself as an all but engaged man. and tried to urge reason. "Remember how young she was! Girls of that age never now their own minds. which is true enough. what he was going to tell his relatives at home. at least. yet without violating the truth. But Dove would not admit even the possibility of his having been mista en. and the mar s of affection Ephie had given him." This was the conclusion Dove eventually came to himself-though not with such unseemly haste as Madeleine. who. and agreed that Edward had done well. how to bac out with dignity. They had not been much in favour of the American match. too. As Maurice listened to him. and. And the point that disturbed him was. so unthin ing of failure. MY DEAR PARENTS. WHICH MAKE IT INCONTROVERTIBLY CLEAR TO ME THAT THE YOUNG LADY TO WHOM I WAS PAYING MY ADDRESSES WHEN I CONSULTED YOU IN SUMMER AND MYSELF WOULD NOT HAVE KNOWN TRUE HAPPINESS IN OUR UNION. Dove wrote: CIRCUMSTANCES HAVE ARISEN. in his blindness. with a wrathful fran ness. until he learnt from Madeleine that Dove was ma ing the round of his acquaintances. to deduce unfavourable inferences for Ephie's whole moral character." said Madeleine. and the blow to his selfesteem was a rude one. but they had trusted implicitly in their son's good sense. and to cry: "So young and so untender!" for which he. he argued that it would be more considerate to Ephie to put it in this light than to tell the story in detail. ON MORE INTIMATE ACQUAINTANCE IT                         . he was sorry for Dove. "He has only to say that HE has changed his mind. But Dove was inclined to ta e Johanna's sterner view. and was not offended. on which he set great store. two elderly people in Peterborough nodded to each other one morning over the brea fast-table.

He bobs up again li e a cor . She breeds mischief. But Maurice recalled an errand he had to do in town. to frighten people out of their wits. I HAVE THEREFORE FOUND IT ADVISABLE TO BANISH THE AFFAIR FROM MY MIND AND TO DEVOTE MYSELF WHOLLY TO MY STUDIES. and. he congratulated himself on having drawn bac . with open eyes. all things considered. one dull November afternoon. and Madeleine cried: "You come in li e a ghost. when there was a light tap at the door." But altogether. for his "lamentable interference. and now. She sat. and from this. "What news from St. It ought to teach you a lesson. who was lolling aimlessly. you now. instead of giving proofs of Ephie's affection. But they had barely exchanged a word. and listened to her. As time passed. In conclusion. at her piano. A well-developed biceps and a cruel mouth--that's what they want. he had had a rather luc y escape. and Dove was able to view what had happened more objectively. Maurice. a mean advantage. Maurice was represented fishing Ephie bodily from the river--"you would have had to bear the whole brunt of the blame. Kindness and complaisance don't move them. it was not very far to believing that if he had not just seen through the whole affair from the beginning. was the scandal of the English-spea ing colony. Krafft. And if that absurd child had really drowned herself"--in the version of the story that had reached Madeleine's ears. not to mix yourself up in Louise's affairs? No good can come of it. in an extreme bad temper. he began to feel and even to hint that. HAVE you heard him quote: 'Frailty thy name is woman!' or: 'If women could be fair and yet not fond'?--It's as good as a play. and continued to run her fingers over the eys. She had ta en him to tas at once. and loo ed pale and thin." Krafft was buttoned to the chin in a travelling-ulster. For you're just the ind of boy women will always ta e advantage of. irrepressible. "Li e his chee !" said Madeleine. while there was still time." "Haven't I warned you. "What in the name of goodness did you climb the stairs for?"                                   . I don't believe the snub is going to do him a bit of good. Both started at his unexpected appearance. declared that he would accompany him. for a day. if he sat down and gave his mind to it. "But you've only just come!" expostulated Madeleine. Maurice leant on the lid. he narrated the gradual growth of his suspicions. and that's all!" she wound up with a flourish. and Krafft entered. Petersburg?" queried Madeleine with a certain asperity.TRANSPIRED THAT OUR CHARACTERS WERE TOTALLY UNSUITED. and how these had ultimately been verified. on hearing this. he had at any rate had some in ling of it. "But he could imagine himself into being the Shah of Persia. Consider how you were treated in this case--by both of them! They were not a scrap grateful to you for what you did--women never are. Madeleine was very sharp of tongue since she learnt the part Maurice had played in what. They only loo down on you for letting them have their own way.

He patted her chee , without replying. The young men went away together, Maurice puffing somewhat ostentatiously at a cigarette. The wind was cold, and Krafft seemed to shrin into his ulster before it, eeping his hands deep in his poc ets. But from time to time, he threw a side-glance at his friend, and at length as ed, in the tone of appeal which Maurice found it hard to withstand: "What's the matter, LIEBSTER? Why are you so different?--so changed?" "The matter? Nothing--that I'm aware of," said Maurice, and considered the tip of his cigarette. "Oh, yes, there is," and Krafft laid a caressing hand on his companion's arm. "You are changed. You're not fran with me. I feel such things at once." "Well, how on earth am I to now when to be fran with you, and when not? Before you . . . not very long ago, you behaved as if you didn't want to have anything more to do with me." "You are changed, and, if I'm not mista en, I now why," said Krafft, ignoring his answer. "You have been listening to gossip--to what my enemies say of me." "I don't listen to gossip. And I didn't now you had enemies, as you call them." "I ?--and not have enemies?" He flared up as though Maurice had affronted him. "My good fellow, did you ever bear of a man worth his salt, who didn't have enemies? It's the penalty one pays: only the dolts and the 'all-too-many' are friends with the whole world. No one who has wor to do that's worth doing, can avoid ma ing enemies. And who nows what a friend is, who hasn't an enemy to match him? It's a question of light and shade, theme and counter-theme, of artistic proportion." He laughed, in his superior way. But directly afterwards, he dropped bac into his former humble tone. "But that you, my friend, are so ready to let yourself be influenced--I should not have believed it of you." "What I heard, I heard from Furst; and I have no reason to suspect him of falsehood.--Of course, if you assure me it was not true, that's a different thing." He turned so sharply that he sent a beautiful flush over Krafft's face. "Come, give me your word, Heirtz, and things will be straight again." But Krafft merely shrugged his shoulders, and his colour subsided as rapidly as it had risen. "Are you still such an outsider," he as ed, "after all this time--in my society--as to attach importance to a word? What is 'giving a word'? Do you really thin it is of any value? May I not give it tonight, and ta e it bac to-morrow, according to the mood I am in, according to whether I believe it myself or not, at the moment?--You thin a thing must either be true or not true? You are wrong. Do you believe, when you answer a question in the affirmative or the negative, that you are actually telling the truth? No, my friend, to be perfectly truthful one would need to lose oneself in a maze of explanation, such as no questioner would have the patience to listen to. One would need to ta e into account the innumerable threads that have gone to ma ing the






















statement what it is. Do you thin , for instance, if I answered yes or no, in the present case, it would be true? If I deny what you heard--does that tell you that I have longed with all my heart for it to come to pass? Or say I admit it--I should need to unroll my life before you to ma e you understand. No, there's no such thing as absolute truth. If there were, the finest subtleties of existence would be lost. There is neither positive truth nor positive untruth; life is not so coarse-fibred as that. And only the grossest natures can be satisfied with a blunt yes or no. Truth?--it is one of the many miserable conventions the human brain has tortured itself with, and its first principle is an utter lac of the imaginative faculties.--A DIEU!"


In the days that followed, Maurice threw himself heart and soul into his wor . He had lost ground of late, he saw it plainly now: after his vigorous start, he had quic ly grown slac . He was not, to-day, at the stage he ought to be, and there was not a doubt but that Schwarz saw it, too. Now that he, came to thin of it, he had more than once been aware of a studied coolness in the master's manner, of a rather ostentatious indifference to the quality of the wor he brought to the class: and this he new by hearsay to be Schwarz's attitude towards those of his pupils in whom his interest was waning. If he, Maurice, wished to regain his place in the little Pasha's favour, he must wor li e a coal-heaver. But the fact was, the strenuous industry to which he now condemned himself, was something of a relaxation after the mental anxiety he had recently undergone; this stri ing of a blac and white eyboard was a pleasant, thought-deadening employment, and could be got through, no matter what one's mood.--And so he rose early again, and did not leave the house till he had five hours' practice behind him. WER SICH DER EINSAMKEIT ERGIEBT, ACH, DER IST BALD ALLEIN: at the end of a fortnight, Maurice smiled to find the words of Goethe's song proved on himself. If he did not go to see his friends, none of them came to him. Dove, who was at the stage of: "I told you so," in the affair of the Cayhills, had found fresh listeners, who were more sympathetic than Maurice could be expected to be: and Madeleine was up to her ears in wor , as she phrased it, with the "C minor Beethoven." "Agility of finger equals softening of the brain" was a frequent gibe of Krafft's; and now and then, at the close of a hard day's wor , Maurice believed that the saying contained a grain of truth. Opening both halves of his window, he would lean out on the sill, too tired for connected thought. But when dus fell, he lay on the sofa, with his arms clasped under his head, his nees crossed in the air. At first, in his new buoyancy of spirit, he was able to eep foolish ideas behind him, as well as to put away all recollection of the disagreeable events he had been mixed up in of late: after having, for wee s, borne a load that was too heavy for him, he breathed freely once more. The responsibility of ta ing care of Ephie had been removed from him--and this by far outweighed the little that he missed her. The matter had wound up, too, in a fairly peaceable






















way; all being considered, things might have been worse. So, at first, he throve under his light-heartedness; and only now became aware how great the strain of the past few wee s had been. His chief sensation was relief, and also of relief at being able to feel relieved--indeed, the moment even came when he thought it would be possible calmly to accept the fact of Louise having left the town, and of his never being li ely to see her again. Gradually, however, he began to be astonished at himself, and in the bac ground of his mind, there arose a somewhat morbid curiosity, even a slight alarm, at his own indifference. He found it hard to understand himself. Could his feelings, those feelings which, a wee or two ago, he had believed unalterable, have changed in so short a time? Was his nature one of so little stability? He began to consider himself with something approaching dismay, and though, all this time, he had been going about on a ind of mental tiptoe, for fear of rousing something that might be dormant in him, he now could not help probing himself, in order to see if the change he observed were genuine or not. And this with a steadily increasing frequency. Instead of continuing than ful for the respite, he ultimately grew uneasy under it. Am I a person of this wea , straw-li e consistency, to be tossed about by every wind that blows? Is there something beneath it all that I cannot fathom? He had not seen Louise since the night he had left her alseep, beside the sofa; and he was resolved not to see her--not, at least, until she wished to see him. It was much better for him that the uncertainties of the bygone months did not begin anew; then, too, she had called him to her when she was in trouble, and not for anything in the world would he presume on her appeal. Besides, his presence would recall to her the unpleasant details connected with Ephie's visit, which he hoped she had by this time begun to forget. Thus he argued with himself, giving several reasons where one would have served; and the upshot of it was, that his own state of mind occupied him considerably. His friends noticed the improvement in him; the careworn expression that had settled down on him of late gave way to his old air of animation; and on all the small topics of the day, he brought a sympathetic interest to bear, such as people had ceased to expect from him. Madeleine, in particular, was satisfied with her "boy," as she too to calling him. She noted and chec ed off, in wise silence, each inch of his progress along the road of healthy endeavour; and the relations between them bcame almost as hearty as at the commencement of their friendship. Privately, she believed that the events of the past month had taught him a lesson, which he would not soon forget. It was sufficient, however, if they had inspired him with a distrust of Louise, which would eep him from her for the present; for Madeleine had grounds for believing that before many wee s had passed, Louise would have left Leipzig. So she ept Maurice as close to her as wor permitted; and as the winter's flood of concerts set in, in full force, he accompanied her, almost nightly, to the Old Gewandhaus or the ALBERTHALLE; for Madeleine was an indefatigable concert-goer, and never missed a performer of note, rarely even a first appearance at the HOTEL DE PRUSSE or a BLUTHNER MATINEE. On the night she herself played in an AIBENDUNTERHALTUNG, with the easily gained success that attended all she did, Maurice went with her to the green-room, and was the first afterwards to tell her how her performance had "gone." That same














evening she too him with her to the house of friends of hers, the Hensels. There he met some of the best musical society of the place, made a pleasant impression, and was invited to return. Meanwhile, winter had set in, with extreme severity. Piercing north winds drove down the narrow streets, and raged round the corners of the Gewandhaus square: on emerging from the PROBE on a Wednesday morning, one's breath was cut clean off, and the tears raced down one's chee s. When the wind dropped, there were hard blac frosts--a deadly, stagnant ind of cold, which seemed to penetrate every pore of the s in and every cranny of the house. Then came the snow, which fell for three days and nights on end, and for several nights after, so that the town was lost under a white pall: house-entrances were with difficulty ept free, and the swept streets were ban ed with walls of snow, four and five feet high. The night-frosts redoubled their eenness; the snow underfoot crac led li e electric spar s; the sleighs crunched the roads. But except for this, and for the tin ling of the sleigh-bells, the streets were as noiseless as though laid with straw, and especially while fresh snow still formed a soft coating on the crisp layer below. All dripping water hung as icicles; water froze in ewers and pitchers; mil froze in cans and jugs; and this though the great stoves in the dwelling-rooms were heated to bursting-point. Red-nosed, red-eared men, on whose beards and moustaches the breath had turned to ice-drops, cried to one another at street-corners that such a winter had not been nown for thirty years; and, as they spo e, they stamped their feet, and clapped their hands, to eep the chilly blood agoing. Women muffled and veiled themselves li e Orientals, hardly showing the tips of their noses; and all manner of strange, antiquated fur-garments saw the day. At night, if one opened a window, and peered out at the houses crouching beneath their thic white load, and at the deserted, snow-bound streets, over which the street-lamps threw a pale, uncertain light--at night, familiar things too on an unfamiliar aspect, and the well- nown streets might have been the untrodden ways that led to a new world. Early in November, all ponds and pools were bearing, and forthwith many hundreds of people forgot the severity of the weather, and thronged out with their s ates. Maurice was among the first. He was a passionate s ater; and it was the one form of sport in which he excelled. As four o'cloc came round, he could contain himself no longer; he would rather have gone without his dinner, thanhave missed, on the JOHANNATEICH, the two hours that elapsed before the sweepers, crying: "FEIERABEND!" drove the s aters before them, with their brooms. In a tightly buttoned square jac et, the collar of which was turned up as far as it would go, with the flaps of his astrachan cap drawn over his cars, his hands in coarse woollen gloves, Maurice defied the cold, flying round the two ponds that formed the JOHANNATEICH, or practising intricate figures with a Canadian acquaintance in a corner. Madeleine watched him approvingly from one of the wooden bridges that spanned the nec connecting the ponds. She rejoiced at his glowing face and vigorous, boyish pleasure, also at the s ill that mar ed him out as one of the best s aters present. For some time, Maurice tried in vain to persuade her to join him. Madeleine, usually so confident, was here diffident and timid. She had never in her life attempted to s ate, and was sure she would fall. And what should she do if she bro e a thumb or strained a finger?--with her PRUFUNG just before the door. She would never have the courage to confess to Schwarz



























how it had happened; for he was against "sport" in any form. But Maurice laughed at her fears. "There is not the least chance of your falling," he cried up to her. "Do come down, Madeleine. Before you've gone round twice, you'll be able to throw off all those mufflings." Finally, she let herself be persuaded, and according to his promise, Maurice remained at her side from the moment of her first, hesitating steps, each of which was accompanied by a faint scream, to the time when, with the aid of only one of his hands, she made uncertain efforts at stri ing out. She did not learn quic ly; but she was soon as enthusiastic a s ater as Maurice himself; and he fell into the habit of calling for her, every afternoon, on his way to the ponds. Dove was also of assistance in the beginning, and, as usual, was well up in the theory of the thing, though he did not shine in practice. "Oh, bother, never mind how you go at first. That'll come afterwards," said Maurice impatiently. But Dove thought the rules should be observed from the beginning, and gave Madeleine minute instructions how to place her feet. Towards five o'cloc , the ice grew more crowded, and especially was this the case on Wednesdays and Saturdays, when the schools had half-holidays. On one of these latter days, Maurice did not find Madeleine at home; and he had been on the ponds for nearly an hour, before he espied her on a bench beside the GARDEROBE, having her s ates put on by a blue-smoc ed attendant. He waved his cap to her, and s ated over. "Why are you so late?" "Oh, than goodness, there you are. I should never have dared to stand up alone in this crowd. Aren't these children awful? Get away, you little brutes! If you touch me, I'll fall.--Here, give me change," she said to the ice-man, holding out a twenty-pfennig piece. Maurice saw that she was unusually excited, and as soon as he had drawn her out of reach of the children, as ed her the reason. "I've something interesting to tell you, Maurice." But here Dove, coming up behind, too possession of her left hand, with no other greeting than the military salute, which, on the ice, he adopted for all his friends, male and female, ali e; and Madeleine hastily swallowed the rest of her sentence. They s ated round the larger of the ponds several times without stopping. The cold evening air stung their faces; the sun had gone down in a lurid haze; Madeleine's s irts swayed behind her and lent her a fictitious grace. But presently she cried a halt, and while she rested in a quiet corner, they watched Maurice doing a complicated figure, which he and his Canadian friend had invented the day before. Dove was explaining how it was done--"It is really not so hard as it loo s"--when, with a cry of "ACHTUNG!" some one whizzed in among them, scattered the group, and, revolving on himself, ended with a jump in the air. It was James. He too out his hand erchief and blew his nose, in the most
















unconcerned manner possible. "I don't thin such acrobatic tric s should be allowed," said Madeleine disapprovingly; she had been forced to grab Dove's arm to eep her balance. "Say, do you boys now the river has six inches and will be open to-morrow, if it isn't to-day?" as ed James, stooping to tighten a strap. "Is that so? Oh gee, that's fine!" cried Miss Martin, who had s ated leisurely up in his rear. "Say, you people, why don't we fix up a party an' go up it nights? A lady in my boarding-house done that with some fol s she was acquainted with last year. Seems to me we oughtn't to be behind." Miss Martin was a s illed and graceful s ater, and loo ed her best in a dar fur hat and jac et, which set off her abundance of pale flaxen hair. Others had followed her, and it was resolved to form a party for the following evening, provided Dove had previously ascertained if the river actually was "free," in order that they ran no ris of being ignominiously turned off. "The ice may be a bit rough, but it's a fine run to Connewitz." "An' by moonlight, too--but say, is there a moon? Why, I presume there ought to be," said Miss Martin. "'Doth the moon shine that night we play our play?'" quoted Dove, examining a tiny poc et-calendar. "Oh gee, that's fine!" repeated Miss Martin, on hearing his answer. "Say, we must dance a FRANCAISE. Mr. Guest, you an' I'll be partners, I surmise," and ceasing to waltz and pirouette with James, she too a long sweep, then stood steady, and let her s ates bear her out to the middle of the pond. Her s irts clung close in front, and swept out behind her lithe figure, until it was lost in the crowd. "Don't you wish YOU could s ate li e that?" as ed the sharp-tongued little student, called Dic ensey, who was standing beside Madeleine. Madeleine, who held him in contempt because his trousers were baggy at the nees, and because he had once appeared at a ball in white cotton gloves, answered with asperity that there were other things in life besides s ating. She had no further chance of spea ing to Maurice in private, so postponed telling her news till the following evening. Shortly after eight o'cloc , the next night, a noisy party whistled and hallooed in the street below Maurice's window. He was the last to join, and then some ten or eleven of them pic ed their steps along the hard-frozen ruts of the SCHLEUSSIGER WEG, a road that followed the river to the outs irts of the town. Just above the GERMANIABAD, a rough scat had been erected on the ice, for the convenience of s aters. They were the first to ma e use of it; the snow before it was untrodden; and the Pleisse wound white and solitary between its ban s of snow. They set off in a higgledy-piggledy fashion, each stri ing out for himself. When, however, they had passed the narrower windings, gone under the iron bridge which was low enough to catch the unwary by the forehead, and when the full breadth of the river was before them, they




























too hands, and, forming a long line, s ated in time to the songs some one struc up, and in which all joined: THE ROSE OF SHARON, JINGLE BELLS, THERE IS A TAVERN IN OUR TOWN. As they advanced to the corners where the big trees trailed their na ed branches on the ice, just as in summer they san their leaves in the water, Miss Jensen, who, despite her proportions, was a surprisingly good s ater, sent her big voice over the snow-bound stillness in an aria from the PROPHET; and after this, Miss Martin, no; to be done, struc up the popular ALLERSEELEN. This was the song of the hour; they all new it, and up and down and across the ice rang out their voices in unison: WIE EINST IM MAI, WIE EINST IM MAI. Inside Wagner's WALDCAFE at Connewitz, they sat closely pac ed round one of the wooden tables, and dran beer and coffee, and ate BERLINER PFANNKUCHEN. The great iron stove was almost red-hot; the ladies threw off their wrappings; cold faces glowed and burnt, and frozen hands tingled. One and all were in high spirits, and the jollity reached a climax when, having exchanged hats, James and Miss Jensen cleared a space in the middle of the floor and danced a nigger-dance, the lady with her s irts tuc ed up above her an les. In the adjoining room, some one began to play a concertina, and then two or three couples stood up and danced, with much laughter and many outcries at the narrowness of the space. Even Dove joined in, his partner being a very pretty American, whom Miss Martin had brought with her, and whose side Dove had not left for a moment. Only Madeleine and Dic ensey sat aloof, and for once were agreed: Americans were really "very bad form." There was no livelier pair than Maurice and Miss Martin; the latter's voice could be heard above all others, as she taught Maurice new steps in a corner of the room. Her flaxen hair had partly come loose, and she did not stop to put it up. They were the first to run through the dar garden, past the snow-laden benches and arbours, which, in summer, were buried in greenery; and, from the low wooden landingplace, they jumped hand in hand on to the ice, and had shot a long way down the river before any of the rest could follow them. But this did not please Madeleine. As it was, she was vexed at not having had the opportunity of a quiet word with Maurice; and when she had laboriously s ated up, with Dic ensey, to the spot where, in a bright splash of moonlight, Maurice and Miss Martin were cutting ingenious capers, she cried to the former in a peremptory tone: "There's something wrong with my s ate, Maurice. Will you loo at it, please?" and as sharply declined Dic ensey's proffered aid. Maurice came to her side at once, and in this way she detained him. But Dic ensey hovered not far off, and Miss Martin was still in sight. Madeleine caught her s ate in a crac , fell on her nee, and said she had now loosened the strap altogether. She sat down on a heap of snow, and Dic ensey's shade vanished good-naturedly round a corner. "Well, YOU seem to be enjoying yourself," she said as Maurice drew off his gloves and nelt down. "Why, yes, aren't you?" he replied so fran ly that she did not continue the subject. "I've been trying all the evening to get a word with you. I told you yesterday, you remember, that I wanted to spea to you. Sit down here, for a moment, so that we can tal in peace," and she spread part of her s irt over the snow-heap.






























Maurice complied, and she could not discover any trace of reluctance in his manner. "I want your advice," she continued. "I was ta en quite by surprise myself. Schwarz sent for me, you now, after counterpoint. It was about my PRUFUNG at Easter. If I play then, it's a case of the C minor Beethoven. Well, now he says it's a thousand pities for me to brea off just at the stage I'm at, and he wants me to stay for another year. If I do, he'll give me the G major--that's a temptation, isn't it? On the other hand, I shall have been here my full time--three years--at Easter. That's a year longer than I originally intended, and I feel I'm getting too old to be a pupil. But this tal with Schwarz has upset my plans. I'm naturally flattered at his interesting himself in me. He wouldn't do it for every one. And I do feel I could gain an immense deal in another year.--Now, what do you thin ?" "Why, stay, of course, Madeleine. If you can afford it, that is. I can't imagine anyone wanting to leave." "Oh, my capital will last so long, and it's a good enough investment." "But wasn't a place being ept open for you in a school?" "Yes; but I don't thin a year more or less will ma e much difference to them. I must sound them, of course, though," said Madeleine, and did not mention that she had written and posted the letter the night before. "Then you advise me to stay?" "Why, of course," he repeated, and was mildly astonished at her. "If everything is as smooth as you say." "You would miss me, if I left?" "Why, of course I should," he said again, and wondered what in the world she was driving at. "Well, all the better," replied Madeleine. "For when one has really got to li e a person, one would rather it made a difference than not." She was silent after this, and sat loo ing down the stretch of ice they had travelled: the moon was behind a cloud, and the woods on either side were masses of dense blac shadow. Not a soul was in sight; the river was li e a deserted highway. Madeleine stared down it, and did not feel exactly satisfied with the result of her investigation. She had not expected anything extraordinary--Heaven forbid!--but she had been uncomfortably conscious of Maurice's surprise. To her last remar , he had made no answer: be was occupied with the screw of one of his s ates. She drew his attention to the fact that, if she remained in Leipzig for another twelvemonth, they would finish at the same time; and thereupon she s etched out a plan of them going somewhere together, and starting a music-school of their own. Maurice, who thought she was jesting, laughingly assented. But Madeleine was in earnest: "Other people have done it--why shouldn't we? We could ta e a 'cellist with us, and go to America, or Australia, or Canada--there are hundreds of places. And there's a great deal of money in it, I'm sure. A little capital would be needed to begin with, but not much, and I could supply that. You've always said you dreaded going bac to the English provinces to decay--here's your chance!"


















if you find you can't endure it among these Dutch. Mr. offered him her hand. "It isn't anyhow so pleasurable at dinner as it used to be." was the cry as soon as Maurice appeared. till I was fixed up in a boarding-house. "And the 'cellist shall be an American--that will draw. with a head li e hers to conduct it. s ated after the rest. But then I've gotten me so many friends I don't ever need to feel lonesome. no sir. and thus encouraged. come along. an'                                         . Guest. and. just you cable. But I hear you're wor ing most hard--it's to' bad. and they began to s ate in long.' But I'm sure I haven't desired to quit. she said to me: 'EI'nor Martin. for some distance. Yes. they came upon the whole party dancing a FRANCAISE--which two members whistled--on a patch of ice that was smoother than the rest." According to the pace at which they were s ating. Say. she continued to enlarge upon it. EI'nor." she asserted. an' he nearly tumbled me twice." "It's what one comes to here. she says: 'Why. "Here. by sounding some of the numerous friends she had. "Momma. I thin it's just fine. outward curving lines. Her idea was that they should go over together.' An' I rec on she's not far out." "I guess it is. An' I see most all strangers that come. Maurice once more found himself with Miss Martin. Yes. with her long. such a plan stood a fair chance of success. he pushed before him. Say. sir. no. an' stopped a bit. Guest. But she didn't find it agreeable." She turned. When she was leaving. "I thin one has just a fine time here. not once. An' then I had to ta e up with Mr. "That wasn't a bit pretty of you. What they call coffee here don't count. I guess you're acquainted with most every one in the place. an' presumed I would. she was thrown on Dove. to Madeleine's deep displeasure. But I presume when Miss Wade says come. and acquainting themselves. and poppa he'll come along an' fetch you right home. she came right with me. He confessed that. Madeleine undertoo to ma e a ind of beginning at once. Anyways there ain't more than two Americans in the city I don't now. and travel to various places. my friend Susie Fay. with the musical conditions of the towns they visited. twanged speech. Mr. As they. don't you?" she continued. I recollect. she standing steady on her s ates. we want you. in a detailed way that astonished Maurice. giving concerts.She saw the whole scheme cut and dried before her. and tal ing to him over her shoulder. whom. "It was fixed up yesterday. scattered through America. the others should have remained well out of reach. now. When the dancing was over. Guest. Dove is just a lovely gentleman. But I do li e to see my friends once in a while. as they did so. She missed America. that you were to dance the FRANCAISE with me. are you acquainted with Miss Moses? She's from Chicago. then you're most obliged to go." "How is it one don't ever see you now?" she queried a moment later. Now Mr. won't you drin coffee with me one afternoon? I'll ma e you some real American coffee if you do. whose s ill had not sufficed. Why. but he don't s ate elegantly. Dove. But on turning a corner. slow. indeed. too. indeed.

"Louise Dufrayer. as I was going on to remar . do loo at her. But suddenly his attention was arrested. as her pretty friend. the other day. I'll invite her along." And Miss Martin guessed so. say." said Susie cordially. at the bench. But she hasn't behaved a bit pretty--I presume you heard tell of what too place here this fall?" "Then you now Miss Dufrayer?" "Yes. when first I was acquainted with her. she was just as sweet as she could be. She don't ta e lessons no more. why. those were his very words. an'. seems to me. It ain't possible to be acquainted with her any more. Well. and Miss Martin was good-natured enough to s ate off with Dove. he couldn't say 'shoh. for all she's so lonesome. since it was only required of him to throw in an occasional word of assent. But momma. an' I guess I don't want to. he overheard pretty Susie remar . if you li e. yes. with easy fran ness. just eep your eyes open. she's just as smart as she can be. But afterwards. of herself." replied his companion. indeed. indeed. are you acquainted with Mr. yes. Guest?" "MR. When he had seen Madeleine home. Yes. her family. Maurice returned to his room. an' don't get acquainted with people you might feel bad about afterwards. I don't-Oh.resides in a boarding-house way down by the COLONNADEN. he believed he had caught one he new. sir. the last thing she said to me was: 'Now EI'nor Martin. I thin she should go right away from this city. "That's it. Guest. Say. I presume. with half an ear. isn't she a peach?"--this. why. that's the quietest sort of young man I've ever shown round a district. "Miss Dufrayer?" he queried. with Dove in tow. But I don't see her any more. indeed. and Miss Martin continued to rattle on. EI'nor Martin. "Say. But his thoughts strayed. He listened vaguely. she was just dandy." Maurice expressed pleasure at the prospect. Why. and not feeling inclined to sleep. Schwarz come in an' told us how she's moping what she can--moping herself to death--if I recollect. and brought headlong bac to what she was saying: in the string of names that fell from her tongue. so you can get acquainted with her too. I got acquainted with her yesterday. sat down to read. indeed. without much care to moderate her voice: "Say. Susie Fay.' Guess you shouldn't have left us. came gliding up to them. and her friends. an' one feels sort of bad about it. She's a lovely lady.                                 . indeed. EI'nor. as he was undoing Madeleine's s ates. leaving Maurice to her friend. too. Pleased to now you.' An' I presume momma was right. VII. Not but what I've heard she feels pretty mean about it now--beg pardon?--how I now? Why.

anchoring in a harbour where the sea was the colour of turquoise. It was this: outside. then glided by. He demanded of himself. and as usual were dismissed. and. and people wal ed shadeless. but when he wa ened from a restless sleep. From this. at this thought. and he allowed his thoughts to ta e wider flights: recalling the scheme Madeleine had proposed. nor had they even made a very incisive impression on him at the time. as vivid sensations. what he could do to help her.he forgot to turn the page. in a train that outdid all real trains in swiftness. and except in this way could not see her at all. and reflected on the opportunities the country offered. as he let them pass. stinging air. But he did not want to now. filled him. which had given way beneath the first                                       . as if no others had been said. Fantastic plans rose as usual in his mind. in the crisp. Her solitude was of her own choosing. they stood out for an instant. straight figure as he pushed her before him. as always where she was concerned. to deceive him as to what was really going on in him. sandy roads. It interfered with everything he did. unreasoning sense of his own unworthiness. "Moping herself to death": the phrase crystallised in his brain with such suddenness that he said it aloud. but they had evidently lain dormant. He did not try to control these details. as he and his companions had done that evening: inside. forsa en. he turned to America itself. nor was he conscious of a mental effort. It was perhaps her way of doing penance. And he had been on the brin of believing himself grown indifferent. which. and sat staring over the boo at the pattern of the tablecloth. He saw Madeleine and himself on the awning-spanned dec of an ocean steamer. in James's hat. busy with many matters. Now he new what it was that was troubling him. and her head was bowed so low that her white fingers were lost in the waves of her hair. mournful. under white umbrellas. For the one thing he was determined not to do. The placidity of the past wee s had been a mere coating of thin ice. Day passed and night passed. He felt it little short of shameful that he should have carelessly amused himself. and stronger in common sense. crowded with dreams one more grotesque than another. he was still prone to be gloomy. He saw her thus with the distinctness of a vision. people lived and moved. he became aware that below them. He explained to himself what they meant. with her head on her hands. he felt a thrill of satisfaction. now to return and to stri e him. with a new energy. a deep. was to thrust himself on her uncalled. But. Incidents of the evening flashed before him: Miss Jensen. he considered it with a clearness of view. and no one had the right to brea in upon it. he consoled himself that things would seem different in the morning. to ma e room for others. in depths of his mind he had believed undisturbed. He could thin more clearly by daylight--that was all: his pitying sympathy for her had only increased. He had not consciously recalled the words. at the time. there was present a feeling of strange unhappiness. saw un nown tropical places. He saw the two of them sweeping through vast tracts of uncultivated land. Miss Martin's slim. with her s irts pinned up. He saw her in the dar sofacorner. where the yellow fruit hung low and heavy. just as it had formerly done--just in the old way. touched to sapphire where the mountains came down to the shore. or sported. At night. Madeleine earnest and decisive on the ban of snow. in white hats. and. had been impossible. but she was always in the same place. which he did not now the cause of: these sharp pictures resembled an attempt on the part of his mind. Fool that he was! Only a word was needed to bring his card-house down. she sat alone. the maze and laughter of the FRANCAISE.

with whom he had met her once or twice that summer. although reason told him the end of it all would be. watching the s aters. He did not. without sending for him. But now that he had certainty. While Madeleine tal ed to Dic ensey. before this fever was out of him. that is. obstructing his view. and he had made sure that Louise was not standing anywhere about the edge of the ice. A distrust of himself too him. beyond Connewitz. tumbling in his haste. it was Louise. He felt himself grow cold. and there was no further hindrance to his seeing: her companion was the shabby little Englishman. when he started so violently that he again let his cap drop. and he soon left them behind. Hitherto. Yes. at first he met some s aters ma ing for home. go home. without explanation. he recognised her although a fur hat almost covered her hair. and from there along outlying roads till he reached the river. A s illed observer might have remar ed a slight contraction of the corners of his mouth. If he sat at home now. he all but overbalanced himself. sin ing needeep in the soft snow. screwing on his s ates again. tripping over snow-bound roots. Then. he chanced to raise his eyes. air--plenty of air!--that was what he needed. a blind curiosity drove him forward to find out whom she spo e to. and Dic ensey's cynicism. Dus was falling. threw another hasty loo at the bridge. But though he was thus bewildered at his own inconsistency. He pic ed it up. he had been surprised at his own conduct. his chief idea was to prevent the others from nowing. and his cap fell on the ice. where he could see without being seen. he plunged into the woods again. Rejoining them. he was still assured that he would not approach Louise--not. he left his companions. he went into the SCHEIBENHOLZ. unless she sent for him. now he was aghast:                                                                         . He wor ed steadily enough. crossed to the benches and too off his s ates. When the bridge was empty. to the front. a distrust so deep that it amounted to aversion. This. too. And then. he insisted--so imperiously that Madeleine showed surprise--on their s ating with him on the further pond. Is anything the matter?" Late one afternoon. but these were few. In ma ing a particularly complicated gyration. and all she said was: "You loo so cross sometimes. he grew sic at the thought of Madeleine's sharp comments. too. space. he struc out with his face to the wind. noticed anything. As he was brushing the snow off it.test. with an intentness he new in her. His eye was ranging carelessly over them. Maurice practised beside them. A number of people were standing on the wooden bridge. His endeavour was to exhaust himself. When the state of the ice did not allow of his s ating further. none of his friends. with the exception of Madeleine. and he ept them going round and round without a pause. For a moment things swam before him. Movement. some children climbed and pushed on the wooden railing. and. however. they were on the ice as usual. She was gazing down. that Louise would actually leave Leipzig. and then. So much control he still had over his actions: and he went so far as to ma e his staying away a touchstone of his stability. for in his present state of mind he discerned only a despicable wea ness. one hand rested on the parapet. he might be tempted to noc his head against the wall of his room. however. or even remembering his existence. his blood seemed to congeal: she was not alone. then turned and s ated some distance away. People moved on the bridge. of doubtful reputation. then several went away. he had not been mista en. as he loo ed. he saw her turn and spea to some one behind her.

dreaded raising his eyes to the bridges over the ice. Of course this Eggis was an unscrupulous fellow. for change of air. he helped her to carry her parcels to the house of some German friends. leaving her in solitude to an atonement of his own imagining. which were a special mar of the festival: ca es shaped li e torpedoes. and glittering Christmas trees. He was in an unsettled mood. and HONIGKUCHEN. he could not rid himself of that belief. where poor buyers were bargaining for the poor trees that were left. jarred on him. crowded with eagerly see ing purchasers. His previous feelings had been those of a child compared with this--a mere wea revolt against the inevitable. and it would lur beneath all he said. For it WAS his place. he did not now how to ill time. But foreigners were only big children. that. which had penetrated the familiar details of life. Christmas had come down--the season of gift-ma ing. a TORTE for the Fursts. for the first time. quixotic as ever. And his distress was so een that. Ba ers' shops were piled high with WEIHNACHTSSTOLLEN. and. and the atmosphere of excitement. the streets were impassible for the masses of country people that thronged them. Every one carried brown paper parcels. the very houseporter touched his cap at your approach. STOLLEN. He himself was invited to Miss Jensen's. had to bear her share of blame. at least. of BOWLE. The days of anxiety that followed were hard to bear. At the same time. was a revelation even to himself. for fear Louise and the other should turn it. If anyone had a right to be at her side it was he. the way in which even the grown-up part of the population surrendered itself to the sentimental pleasures of the season. It seemed absurdly childish. and meanwhile. he had held aloof from her. He dreaded every street-corner. subordinates and officials grew noticeably polite. that was the sting of it: it was a violent chance-effect. unless. but it was just such men as this--he might note that for future use--who won where others lost. almonded coats bris ed brown and tempting. For. But the spicy scent of the firs was the motive that recurred most persistently: it clung even to the stairways of the houses. and was in a hurry. and when he had passed the last tree-mar et. he shran from the idea of imitating him. In some houses. the open squares and places were set out with fir-trees of all sizes--their pungent fragrance met one at every turn: the shops were ablaze till late evening. too. and even had he been bold enough. As the time drew near. He could not go to her and say: I come because I have seen you with some one else. she. For a fortnight beforehand. the trees were already lighted. And yet that would be the truth. Maurice had assisted Madeleine with her circumstantial shopping. not a single errand could he devise to serve him as an excuse. all that he had undergone on her behalf during the past months counted for nothing. and went for a long wal .                                       . they could lay aside age and dignity at will. at dus on Christmas Eve. over all this. where a party of English and Americans would celebrate the evening in their own fashion. When he had pic ed out at a confectioner's. or. he met only isolated stragglers. indeed. But what had now happened was not inevitable. and was so irritable in temper that Madeleine suggested he should go to Dresden in the Christmas holidays. but not till eight o'cloc . He felt misanthropic. some one who was not troubled by foolish ideals stepped in and too his place.the hot rush of jealousy that had swept through him at the sight of the couple on the bridge. whose sugared. He said jeeringly to himself.

And added: "Will you not come in? Please. he waited for the door to be opened. Then he heard sounds. "Ah then . and chose an azalea to ta e to Miss Jensen. with a few stammered words. too. He had acted so spontaneously that he now believed his mind to have been made up before he entered the shop. his heart misgave him. he resolved just to hand in the roses. in a burst of cowardice. . "I'll ta e those roses. then. his eye was caught by a large bunch of red and yellow roses. He regarded them for a moment. no. he was not sure how she would regard his gift. "A pity. He tried to say something else. Or was it only that. "Are they for me?" she as ed. which stood in a vase at the bac of the counter. But it was not possible for him to stay: friends--engaged--a promise of long standing. loves roses? But he did not give himself time for reflection. steps came along the passage. and the door was opened by Louise herself. Louise had peered out from the dar ness of the passage to the dus of the landing. He was so unprepared for this that he could not collect his wits. A moment later. as if all that had happened during the past wee had led straight up to his impulsive action. . he hurried through the cold night air. and was about to go. But his first ring remained unanswered. and before he rang again. she impulsively stepped towards him. a ind of refrain had begun to run through his head: she loves roses. Such fine flowers!" Her interest was awa ened in the rather shabby young man who paid the price without flinching. however. he thrust the flowers into her hand. without even leaving his name. and told a wordy story of how they had been ordered. Maurice came bac from the stair-head. She loo ed from him to the roses in her hand. and she threw inquisitive loo s at him as she wrapped the roses in tissue-paper. and. with the air of one roused from sleep. There was another pause. though he had only climbed it some three or four times. on the stair. wound Madonna-li e round her head--named a sum that seemed exorbitant to his inexperience. every step of which. he went to a flower-shop in the KONIGSPLATZ. without conscious thought. come in. What do they cost?" The girl who served him--a very pretty girl. But. he had time to be afraid she would not be at home--a simple. sheltering the flowers under his coat. As. he streched out his hand. suddenly colouring.On his return. with plaits of straw-coloured hair. at the sight of the flowers. more. Soon he was once more in the BRUDERSTRASSE. While he was waiting for the pot to be swathed in crimped paper. and bac at him. but disappointing solution. and his foot was on the stair before she could ma e a movement to stop him. and then countermanded at the last moment. Maurice was in the street with the flowers in his hand. when she saw this." She retreated into the shadow of the                                 ." At the sound of her voice. of course. he seemed to now by heart. raised his hat.

He had nown her as passionately self-assertive. and more pinched. over the head of this trifling service. however does that happen?" Maurice as ed quic ly. she too the globe off the lamp. the blinds being still undrawn. on which he was safe. was the change that had ta en place in her manner. though. in consequence of which the nose loo ed larger. Madeleine had been a beginner that winter. while the shadows beneath them were as dar as though they were plastered on with bistre. But this done. and had nothing to say to each other. he fancied. grey-white reaches. and the firm compression of the mouth: now. and now seldom missed an afternoon. "Let me do it. when she smiled. she let a subject drop as soon as it was broached. It was over two months now since Maurice had seen her. Even more mar ed than this. and raise them to her face. "But I am quite alone. I should not go. and in her answer was more of herself. After each banal observation he made came a heart-rending pause. too. lonely. help was needed here. Her eyes indled at this. and he returned more than once to the ice and the s ating. with its long. "Moping to death" had been no exaggeration. and." "Why. Then he told her of the frozen river. In the room there was no light except what played on the walls from the streetlamps. and at once. But it was chiefly the expression of the face that had altered: the lifelessness of the eyes was new to it. He paused irresolute. "I have never trodden on ice in my life." "I should thin it was. no thin line of white appeared. such as he had been used to watch for." said Maurice.doorway. but her loo was that of one who listens to the affairs of another world." He followed her down the passage. She had been sitting in the dar . There were not many topics. "Oh. Could she not be persuaded to join them on the JOHANNATEICH. The chin-lines were sharpened.                                             . the eyes more sun en. as offering a ind of neutral ground. As he thought these things. if Madeleine is there. and sometimes assented. and he could not now accustom himself to the condition of apathy in which he found her. and was ready at once to be wrath with all the world. he watched her free the roses from their paper. but it was ample than s to see her touch several of them singly. Now." she said with a touch of the old arrogance. he tal ed at random. he had a feeling of intense satisfaction. But it is lonely. they sat on opposite sides of the table. and there were hollows in the fine oval of the chee s. And Louise listened. however. Her face seemed to have grown longer. There is no one in but me. he was as ing her. By the light that was cast on the table.--On this night of all others. that could be touched on with impunity. and would have lighted it. with his hand on the banisters. "I said I didn't mind. and he was startled by the change that had ta en place in her. if she were not to be irretrievably injured. but she could not find matches. She did not mention them again. What matter though she did not s ate! It was easily learned. as she put them in a jug of water. ta ing out his own.

having written a few words of apology on a card. and. Are you sure you would li e it?" "Just for that reason." she said. "As if we were going on a journey!" she said. she pulled at the fringe of the tablecloth. and stood up. They sat in silence for some seconds. "I could be ready in five minutes. the steep blac ness of the houses was splashed with patches of light. But he was not satisfied: she did not now how cold it would be: and he made her put on a heavy jac et under her fur cape. green-painted." With his brain in a whirl. But she only smiled. he urged--big. Her eyes shone with a spar of their old light. "Yes?" she said indifferently. Then. and simultaneously spo e out the thought. as she obeyed him. she went over to the jug of roses. and was annoyed at his own powerlessness. The hard-frozen streets. all of a sudden rising from her chair. There wouldn't be a soul on the river but ourselves. which he could not         "To-night?" he had echoed. ordered this to be sent with his purchase to Miss Jensen. Maurice went bac to the flowershop. over which a cutting wind drove. He was aware. he told himself. With her fingers. and wound her hand erchief in and out of her hands. if necessary. Maurice had a somewhat guilty feeling about the whole affair: they also belonged by rights to the town to-night. "But it's Christmas Eve. a belated holidayma er was still to be met with hurrying townwards: only they two were leaving the town.                                       . and ta e a sil shawl. He himself carried a travelling-rug for her nees. and did not answer. She can go with Eggis." he answered. You are going out. fearful lest she should sin bac into her former listlessness. and as suddenly came bac to her seat. "Suppose we went to-night. and with that laming want of curiosity which prevents a subject from being followed up." she replied. in approval of the adventurous nature of their underta ing. bent over the flowers with a ind of perceptible hesitation. When he returned. sledge-li e chairs. before he could chec himself. so afraid was she now that he would refuse. which ran smoothly. which she had placed on the writing-table. she could muffle up her head. he was wrong. In many windows. and its innocent revels." "That's the least of it. the golden glory of the CHRISTBAUM was visible. "Ah yes--I forgot. of a vague anxiety." But if he had imagined this would rouse her. I should be afraid--horribly afraid!" For those who did not s ate there were chairs. were deserted. behind them. in which. The ice was many inches thic . At intervals. and for the first time loo ed hard at Maurice. "Then I can't persuade you?" he as ed. Louise was ready. "I saw you on the bridge the other day. too.Oh. there was not the least need to be afraid.

she did not show it. they sat beside the stove. on loo ing bac . the wind was with them. he could see that her eyes were fixed on the grey-white stretch to be travelled: her warm breath came bac to him. it was the gesture with which she fingered the not of hair on her nec . along the snowy path to the WALDCAFE. The snow had drifted into huge piles at the sides. he could see more plainly than before the havoc trouble had made of her face. a snow-storm was imminent. Louise had not spo en since leaving the house. they loo ed at each other. it lay unswept on their trac . and loo ed with the same curious interest as the boatman at the forlorn pair. and these feelings successfully prevented him ta ing an undue pleasure in what was happening to him. It was a hazily bright night. as if all this were happening to some one else. above all. and he warned them not to be late in returning. while the astonished boatman. Louise sat before him. he never new. by bending. she remained as silent as before. from the expression of her eyes. not to him. fetched in passing. She was still disinclined to spea . as she had asserted. What her thoughts were on this fantastic journey. was so close that.                                             . and there were seamy crac s to be avoided. over his shoulder. he could have touched it with his lips. unloc ed the boat-shed where the ice-chairs were ept. and now she sat with her hand propping her chin. but the ice was rough. noc ed out in the middle of his festivities. In a corner of the big room. throughout. he felt. and scrutinised her closely. Then she held out her hand. Not a creature was to be seen: had a rift opened in the ice. He had stared too openly: she felt his eyes. with its piquant odour. In the stronger light of this room. and had they two gone through it. and too hard. At their journey's end. Louise had laid her fur cap aside with her other wraps. but this face had exactly the same effect upon him now as then. But he was still in too detached a mood to be happy. and. upright. in spite of the shadows that had descended on it. By leaning sideways. Maurice judged that her thought were very far away. Nor was it the face alone: it was also the lines of throat and chin. unfathomable as the night. but rapid clouds were passing. If she were really afraid. Even after they had started. and raised her own. For a few seconds. It seemed to be a matter of the nerves. Maurice thought they had not exchanged a word all the way to Connewitz. Maurice helped Louise into the chair. he multiplied words. He could not analyse his feelings any better now than in the beginning. According to him. when she turned her head. these things sent answering ripples through him. He had swung his s ates. which was empty.repress. her hands. The landlady served them herself. whose every movement was full of meaning: yes. and wrapped the rug round her. and they wal ed as quic ly as the slippery snow permitted. cold and stiff. as sound does through air. Slight. Sitting opposite her. and it was comparatively easy wor . And yet. and the coil of her hair. nor just what secret nerve in her was satisfied by it. before cups of steaming coffee. she also stood mutely by. He pushed in a ind of dream. he shaded his own eyes with his hand. indeed. he helped her. and was even a little facetious at their expense. as they advanced. the mystery of their disappearance would never have been solved. and had drawn off her gloves. The Christmas punch had made him merry. it was still to him the most adorable face in the world.

she began to cry. sitting motionless before it. and she had ceased to shiver. he stopped. there was nothing for it but to ring for the landlady. apart from the rest of the world. Not a drosch e was to be seen. and when Louise tried to get out of the chair. and loo ed out of the window. through the thic . new snow-layer. The house. she found herself so paralysed with cold that she could hardly stand. but she begged for a little longer. should always be hers. to see if it were not the last. It too them twice as long to return. but their progress was slow. stinging their eyes. At this. "What is it? Are you so cold?--Just a little patience." He too her hand. The wind was against them. without replying. and to stand in the wind till she came down. The driver was drun or asleep. and they were half-way home before they met one. and so they sat on for another half-hour. they were exposed to the full force of the blizzard. but she was very wroth at the folly of the proceeding. as they toiled their way along the ARNDTSTRASSE. they found a leaden s y. he heard her teeth chatter. melting on their lips. and each violent gust that met him when he turned a corner. from this day on. We shall soon be there. in the warm and drowsy stillness. he could not thin of anything suitable to say.ey had been forgotten. She might safely give herself into his charge. The old woman was not so astonished as Maurice had expected. he was dismayed to see that tears were running down her chee s. Blinded by the snow. too tell-tale. to sha e the snow off the rug. She was still crying when the cab drew up. But. he was wide-awa e to the fact that he was sitting alone with her. she should never doubt the truth of what she said. scanning each house they passed. by the light of a street-lamp which they passed. and they had not gone far before snow began to fall: great fla es came flying to them."You are my friend. jolting them from side to side. The unobtrusive aid that was mingled tenderness and respect. He did not now how to comfort her. smiting their faces. smote him doubly. The cab slithered and slipped over the dangerous roads. All strangeness seemed to have been swept away between them." He would ta e care of her as no one had ever yet tried to do. and chafed it. Louise san limply into a corner. "Are you warmer now?" He could not altogether suppress the new note that had got into his voice. He loo ed at his watch: it was time to go. But he made a vow that. and did not scruple to say so." He pressed it. Maurice had laid the rug across her nees. and had first to be roused. "You are my friend. At intervals. what rose to his lips was too emotional. Outside. Maurice pushed till he panted.                                     . for he pictured to himself the fury with which it must hurl itself against her. she clung to Maurice's arm. and to enwrap Louise afresh.

JA--JAWOHL!" she sniffed. He had not. steady aid should be hers. which were not to be overstepped. and was wrapped in a thic woollen shawl. he only made inquiries at the door after Louise. they got Louise up the stairs. on the two days that followed the memorable Christmas Eve. which he had always longed to give her. his mind was made up: idle tongues should have no fresh cause for gossip. VIII. with the expedition that had ended so unfortunately. For example. And. lest he should believe he was setting out on all too primrose a path. as if each of the unhappy hours he had spent. He would be that friend. But when he was face to face with her. as others had done." said Maurice. however. At the expiry of a fortnight. late one afternoon. indeed."SO 'NE DUMMHEIT. by now. what she had always needed. she had not been properly warm since the night on the ice. on the landing. So. she said. the gentle. he said to himself. For. between them. as. SO 'NE DUMMHEIT!" she mumbled. in the matter of impulsive acts and wishes. She had never had anyone to stand by her and advise her to wisdom. "But there's an easy remedy for that. with their own ends in view. it was true. She was trying to eep warm. was a friend. made a very happy beginning. and he sought anew for a means of impressing himself on her consciousness. did not return. he would be firm. he hedged himself round with restrictions. he began to fear that if he remained away any longer." A deep sense of responsibility filled him. She was crouched in the roc ing-chair. What she needed. to a puritanic strea in his nature. He would win her bac to life--reawa en her interest in what was going on around her. she would thin him indifferent to her offer of friendship. he doubted whether she had given him a thought in the interval: she seemed mildly surprised at his coming. It was a friend's part to warn in due time. But from now on. and when he learned that the cold she had caught was better. but he promised himself not to be led into an indiscretion of the ind again. as if his love for her had all along been aiming at this issue. He erected limiting boundaries. was made up for by the words: "You are my friend. He would devote himself to serving her: not selfishly. who came in ruddy                     . It was even possible that she had forgotten. and she treated Maurice's advice concerning cordials and hot drin s with scant courtesy. In obedience. He felt strong enough to face any contingency: it seemed. "JA. and to point out the possible consequences of a rash act. and had felt too sorry for her to refuse the first thing she as ed of him. He only excused his behaviour because he had not seen her for over two months. the door was shut in his face. close beside the stove. on one point. he called to see her. however. but the hand she gave him was as cold as stone. since first meeting her. what she had said to him.

and the contents of a couple of drawers. she.from the sharp air. he inquired if there were nothing else of a similar nature he could do for her. and more and more did it seem to the young man as if the words he bad gone about hugging to him. holding both hands. got up from the roc ing-chair. and also made an expressive gesture to indicate the general laxity of her dress--the soiled dressing-gown. and Maurice was forced to confess his ignorance of the circumstances. many of them. . too. was the same supple. "You must go out and wal ." said Maurice. more than he would have patience for. From her scat at the stove. When. for which she had no aptitude. with a funny little movement. he was glad to be of use. After a desperate quarter of an hour. the dues would no doubt be considerable. had never been spo en. and she spread out her fingers. But matters did not always run smoothly.                             . with her consent. complications arose. she did not help him. "If only winter were over!" He gazed at the expressive lines of hand and wrist. Then you will soon get warm. searching for streets he did not now. in her present mood. A box had been sent to her from England." But she shuddered at the suggestion. over a paid bill that had been sent in a second time. he rose to ta e leave. As a consequence of this. She had only remembered it a day or two ago. Then she leaned forward again. . in the afternoon. "I should be delighted. scanning the names of shops. and. In doing this. and she was callous to the fact of its being a stranger. the following days saw him on various commissions in different quarters of the town. standing pale and uncertain before him. horrified beyond measure at the confusion that reigned in all belonging to her. who had his hands thus in her private life. passionate indolence. through which the red coals glowed. she would be so grateful. at nine o'cloc . He went the next morning. to wor through the mass of papers. at the writing-table. and she was as grateful to him as it was possible for her to be. for instance. and laid his hat down again. the thumbs slightly thrown out. spent a trying hour with uncivil officials. and. she told him. She should try him and see. he sat down. and over an earlier one that had not been paid at all. she would rather as him than Mr. If it were not too much trouble . and had been lying unclaimed at the custom-house for several wee s now--how many she did not now. palms out. to show her ignorance. while she tumbled over the dusty letters and papers accumulated on the writing-table. as ed him if she might trouble him to do something for her. called to report to Louise. he became acquainted with some of the more intimate details of her life--minute and troublesome details. Eggis. When this had happened more than once. to the mica pane in the door of the stove. her untidy hair. and was reminded of an adoring Madonna he had somewhere seen engraved: her hands were held bac in the same way. the three long fingers together. Louise admitted that there were other things. said Maurice. No one had ever done a thing of the ind for her before. But simultaneously. Smiling. As he was saying good-bye to her. But he could find no more to say than on the occasion of his former visit. to hear what they were. Louise watched him sorting and rec oning. the little one apart: here as there.

glad to be subordinate to his will. but it went against the grain in Maurice to let several pounds be lost for want of an effort. Then she seemed to elude him again. A day or two afterwards. and pressed both hands to her face: it was too cold. she was under the necessity of writing a letter. which he thought might interest her and which did not. and when she had promised twice to do. she murmured. This was an idea of Maurice's own. however. he prevailed upon her to do the same for Schwarz. But she did not believe such a day would ever come again. she told him that. before her illness. represented to his eyes a small fortune. she made the same response: it did not matter."             . she had not set foot across the threshold of her room. and too cheerless. fees were still being charged against her at the Conservatorium. This was the burden of all she said: nothing mattered. Three terms were owed at Klemm's musical library. he also wished her to mix with people again. with that carelessness concerning money. and it was still unwritten. stating that she had left the Conservatorium. where she had given no formal notice of leaving. in two months. She obeyed him blindly. Maurice was bent on her going out into the open air. But she shran as he spo e of it. Maurice stood over her. Then there was the Bluthner. and thus rid herself of the morbid fancies that were creeping on her. And the amounts added up to alarming totals. the hire of it had not been paid since the previous summer. Bills. she would not appear personally. and could only stand amazed. three times. when the positive help Maurice could give her was at an end. which was characteristic of her. As. and to say that. nervous fears beset her. bills: dozens of bills. it. Maurice had no idea what a woman's dress cost. and invariably tossed aside and forgotten--a mode of proceeding incomprehensible to Maurice. but from an aversion. He did what lay in his power: brought her boo s that she did not read. sent in once. There was not the least need for the half-jesting tone in which Maurice clothed his air of authority. And the day came. come a day of strength and purpose. bills. to ta e in what the figures meant. nothing would ever matter again. brought news and scraps of chit-chat. It really did not matter. and Louise loo ed up at him before putting down the words. As long as he did not as her to thin . at Easter. to inform him of her illness. But if you thin I should say so--it doesn't matter. getting her released from paying the whole of the term that had now begun. but the sum spent on fruit and flowers alone. or to stir from her chair beside the stove. only too soon. and he spent a diplomatic half-hour with the secretaries in the BUREAU. if she were better.Maurice as ed her how she had ever succeeded in eeping order.         "It's not true. she would come to him for a course of private lessons. twice. her letters and accounts were filed and in order. doing what he bade her without question. she said. the unused piano. on which she had had the "courage" to face these distasteful trifles and to end them. But it was only with regard to small practical things. or to feel. who had never bought anything on credit in his life. there had. But to all he said and did. which was almost an inability. now and again. she did not owe a pfennig to anyone. and dictated the words into her pen. Since the night on the river. in matters of more importance she was not to be moved. from which no music was now borrowed. and an endless store of sympathy. of varying dates. And not because she was in want of money: there were plenty of gold pieces jingling loose in a drawer.

and hardly heard what he said. "This can't go on. half sleeping. or the wind was still. however. he tal ed persuasively. His uneasiness increased. She was in one of her most pitiable moods. "By inches? Inches only? Oh. One day was the exact counterpart of another. Now she could not raise a finger to help herself. she unconsciously began to loo to his visits. But little though he was able to touch her. for her want of spirit had something about it that he could not understand. he believed. snow fell. the noise. enabling her to get through those hours of the day in which she was alone. the wind howled. Louise raised her head. she lay mo tionless. I am so strong .and then the streets! . . You are illing yourself by inches--and I'm a party to it. . the people! This was what she said to him. and one day. he returned to the attac . It began to loo to him li e a somewhat morbid indulgence in grief. He came in. there was a hint of impatience in his manner. not allowing himself to be discouraged. when he was detained and could not come. the publicity of the streets." For the first time. or it was frostily clear. but nothing happened--nothing at all. and eager to see her. And now I have no more courage in me than strength in my little finger. He meant well. in the morning. The only brea in the deathli e monotony was Maurice's visit. The cloc tic ed benumbingly the long hours away. . to each of which a memory was attached! He spent hours in urging her to ta e up some regular occupation. day after day. Maurice felt more and more clearly that he was ma ing no headway. or dreaming with open eyes. to herself she added: and all the old familiar places. as he had not seen her ma e a movement for wee s. "Do you thin I care?--Oh. In the semi-dar ness of the room. fresh. she turned with loathing from the new day. raised it quic ly. She let Maurice tal on. it would be her salvation. there she brooded until she dragged herself bac to bed. and it would have been all over. if I had only had the courage. that day! A few grains of something. as he had learned to now. To his surprise. On wa ing. But I wasn't brave enough. for there were gradations in her unhappiness. she was aware of a feeling of injury at his absence. he held her hand and said ind things to her. Wor ?--what had she to do with wor ? It had never been anything to her but a narcotic." "If you loo in the glass." he said sternly. long ago." "You mean that I'm getting old ?--and ugly?" she caught him up. The day was well ad vanced before she left her bed for the seat by the stove. and she listened or not. and. No one but herself new the weight of the burden she had borne since the day when her happiness was mercilessly destroyed."                                                     . No one understood. As time went by. you will see that you're hurting yourself considerably. but he did not understand. . "This can't go on. Nothing hurts me. But she only smiled the thin smile with which she defeated most of his proposals for her good. Nothing is of any use. as she felt disposed.

what she said was directed chiefly against herself--this self for which she now nursed a fanatic hatred. little by little. she would have been glad to go for a wal . things went forward of themselves. for all answer. indeed. That's what I'm here for.                                       . He had himself well under control--except for the moment immediately before he saw her. dexterously avoiding the watery places. I shall go mad. the thaw was there in earnest. But. to see how far she might go. it sometimes seemed as if his very indness incited her. by laying her under an obligation to him. and. I ought not to. And you are the only friend I have. At first. on the ice of more than three months' standing. without replying: this was the single occasion on which she had been roused to a retort of any ind. and one day. the air seemed of an incredible mildness. of course. it was as if. some harmless observation on his part drew forth a caustic reply from her. Louise threw a penitent glance at him. which it was in her nature to resent: at others. when. again. But there's so much I must say to some one. in which he never called her by her name. which precedes and accompanies a thaw. when. he. he entered her room. leaving miniature crater-rings. she found an outcry of this ind a relief to her surcharged nerves. and Dove and pretty Susie Fay called out to them that it was ' better than it loo ed.Maurice loo ed meditatively at her. And from this day on. since it had failed her in her need. the very next day. "Forgive me. had already collapsed. "Do I really deserve that thrust?" he once could not help as ing. she crossed the room to him. were still flying about the ice. a few minutes later. pools of water had formed overnight. to ta e the edge off his words. early in February." "Why. But Maurice was fastidious and Madeleine indifferent. He smiled." he sought to tempt Louise. as he spo e. As. bitter though her words were. and parted from her at her house-door. after a similar incident. after the briefest absence. and. he could not prevent the spar of hope which. "Spring is in the air. with the swiftness of movement that was always disturbing in her. flec ed with moisture. unmoved. But. Again and again. which. Maurice and Madeleine stood loo ing dubiously across the ban of snow. she admitted. by their means. as if she merely wished to try him. He could not yet meet her. By the JOHANNATEICH. she was really rather tired of s ating. however. And so it went on--a strange state of things. and seldom touched her hand. as they wal ed home. Several people who could not tear themselves away." said Maurice. too. here and there. was drawn within the circle of her bitterness. this particular afternoon was already bro en into. but Maurice did not ta e up her suggestion. contrasting as it did with her customary indolence. For a wee on end that penetrating rawness had been abroad. after the unequalled severity of the winter. and the moment after. and was ashamed to thin of the time she had wasted on it. was lit in him. having once experienced it. If I don't say it. held out her hand.

"What's the matter? Has anything happened?" he as ed. as he new--but it invariably rac ed him anew. and dirty corners. But she only repeated: "How could you! Oh. And the mud--oh. And so he left her to dress. and the further she went. she sobbed in a muffled voice. furs and jac et to the hat. Maurice drew her story from her. if he really wished it so much. but the only comfort he ventured on was to lay his hand on her hair--this wild blac hair. put her arms on the table. and had wal ed hurriedly along quiet by-streets to the ROSENTAL." He had to as several times before he received an answer. Word by word. she said at last. God. She raised her eyes to his li e a tired child. and he waited for half an hour before he heard her step in the hall. What is it?" He had visions of her being annoyed or insulted. she dropped on a chair. Finally. She had gone out. but she had not returned. Louise--tell me what it is. In each of her movements was a concentrated. too. as she burst into violent sobs. with a will of its own. her eyes shone as if with belladonna. "What is the matter?" he besought her. he new that something was the matter. her courage began to fail. the mud! It spread itself over every inch of                                             . then stood motionless. off which the soft white coating had slid. had been aware of the change. arriving just in time for a class. "You've got bac . Directly she came in. and ran to the Conservatorium. did not even loo in his direction. she would go out. for it had aggravated her dejection. their contours were as painful to see. the more her spirits san . Houses. for the sa e of saying something. and hid her face in them. steadily retreating snow was leaving bare all the drab brownness it had concealed--all the dismal little gardens. but noiseless energy: she shut the door after her as if it were never to open again. He should have been accustomed to her way of crying by this time--it sounded worse than it was. Her surroundings were indescribably depressing: the smirched. pressing her hand erchief to her lips. She too no notice of the silent figure in the corner. "It's too late. There was not very much to tell. It was almost dar . streets and people wore their most bedraggled air. He stood over her. tore off rather than unpinned the thic blac veil in which she had shrouded herself. "Tell me.She. Later on. how COULD you!" "What do you mean? I don't understand. Oh. threw her hat on the sofa. But before she had advanced a hundred yards. and had not strength enough to ma e her usual stand against him." At his words." said Maurice. Her face had emerged from its wrappings with renewed pallor. Particularly the people: they were as ugly as the areas of roof and stone. in quic alarm. which met his fingers springily. without raising her head: "How could you ma e me go out! Oh. it was cruel of you!" and wept afresh. a curious uneasiness drew him bac to see how she had fared.

which was of a piece with the desolation around her. But. Medusa-li e. this stung li e scorpions. from its setting of ruffled hair. though she lived to be an old woman. or pausing to ta e breath. But I was a fool. And while I was still struggling came Madeleine. Into the first empty drosch e she met. secret springs had been touched in her. oh. . When she raised it again. then I shouldn't complain. as if. loathed it. or to console her. "I can't bear my life. If I had done anything to deserve it . my God." Her clasped hands were slightly stretched from her: her whole attitude betrayed the tension at which she was spea ing." She wept despairingly. Oh. and the past rose before her with resistless force: the intensity of her happiness." she sobbed.the way. But all of a sudden she started up. the trees were only a net-wor of blac ened twigs. But I didn't-didn't do anything--unless it was that I cared too much. earthy decay reminded her of open graves. the slush was being swept into beds. . lay layers of rotten leaves from the autumn. which spattered and splashed. with her cruel tongue. I flung it all at his feet. My nails cut my palms. . I did not move from the corner of that sofa there. and which would never again be otherwise. "It's too hard . how I hate him still! If I live to be an old. she continued with terse disconnectedness: "I couldn't believe it. . I turned her words over till there was no sense left in them. she did not now. her unspea able misery. on both sides. It was always between us. not loo ing behind her. . Before she had gone any distance. . . I wonder I didn't go mad. she sobbed--hated it. Not a soul was visible but herself.--How long she sat thin ing things of this ind. with her head on her outstretched arms. the only living creature in the scene. More to herself than to the young man. And it was only natural he should get tired of me. And everything was mouldering: the smell of moist. ta ing pains to do                                                     . The wonder was that I held him so long. But that all the time he should have been deceiving me. if you hadn't come to help me. . frightened both by her wretched thoughts and by the loneliness of the wood. on this day. I shall never forgive him. their trun s surrounded by an undergrowth that was as ragged as un empt hair. it was no better. how I hated him . In the ROSENTAL. but it was at least only a pale brain thing. and there is no one to help me. her boots and s irts were heavy with it. in time. how can one care as I did. the paths were so soa ed that they squashed under her feet. all of you. her misery. the roads were rivers of filth. . and been driven home. For. as it was. but I wasn't. For a day and night. if it had only been his wor that too him from me. At least it was a mista e--a dreadful mista e. "Oh. it affected her with a physical disgust--and this lie might have nown when he sent her out. hated him . I might have learnt to bear his leaving me. not living flesh and blood. I should have. that I was ill. at the sides of the streets. the base cruelty of his conduct. if his leaving me had been hard to bear. It was of no use trying to reason with her. and she fled. and she hated mud. and yet be able to plot and plan? I couldn't. I wouldn't--even when I heard it from his own lips. old woman. I should never have shown him how I cared: I should have made him believe he loved me best. It isn't in me to do it. till she reached the streets. her tear-stained face loo ed out. she had sun exhausted. and told me--you now what she told me. then it would be different . She sat on a seat. her forlorn desolation. I was only trying to get used to the terrible thought--just as a suddenly blinded man has to get used to being always in the dar . . You thought.

told me there was. who are not easily moved yourselves. But all I as ed of him was common honesty--to be open with me: it wasn't much to as . And so . And I hoped against hope--till I saw her. and pushed her hair bac from forehead. and it couldn't have lasted for ever. Well. for a time?--go away and be with people who now nothing of . "Forget what I've said to-night. drop by drop. all this--people you don't need to be afraid of? Let yourself be persuaded. not very long ago. He went free. As a child. if only one could burn memories too! I had to tear my heart over it. I now everything you are going to say. that brought him to me. "No. Will you not go away from here. For all the suffering fell on me. "Don't go on. Give it a chance. . She shoo her head. . at heart. all the same. That night. Then. a fancy. it's for another reason. I want to spea to you to-night as that friend. . too. It's you we have to thin of. I new it was true-----as plainly as if it had been written on that wall. I ground my heel into a rose if it pric ed me. I haven't suffered li e this. "The person who cares. and soft. when I had seen her. he was cold and selfish. in all my life. You need to say these things to some one. "But often. I am crushed and flung down. It was only a phase. was it? Not more than we expect of a stranger in the street. I seem to forget what I am saying. I paid for it all--I who hate and shrin from pain. before she stretched out her hand to him. in this bitter pleasure of laying her heart bare." She loo ed at him with a listless forbearance." Maurice was loo ing out of the window. just with you." At this. I implored. "For I wasn't the person he could always have been satisfied with--I see it now. ." He drew up a chair. that I was your friend.it--that I cannot forgive. You still but faith in these trite remedies. and gentle--not dar . He didn't care." "Never mind me." There was a silence. can't scheme and contrive. He li ed a woman to be fair. and why I shall never--not if I live to be a hundred years old--never forgive him." She paused for breath. You have brooded over them to yourself till they are magnified out of all proportion. I prayed there might be some mista e: you. and sat down beside her. I want to go through life nowing only what is bright and happy. why I never want to hear his name again. every scrap of writing I had ever had from him ." "Are you sure of that? It may have been hard for him. . At first. quiet people. No. You told me once. But. He never really cared for me--only for himself. and hot-tempered. because you're so quiet yourself. And now perhaps you understand. . and again a few minutes went by. too--harder than you thin . You have such a healthy nature." she said contritely. Maurice turned and came over to her.--That's always the way with you calm. . I thin . and did not turn. . It isn't in me to do it. I used to thin I felt it bleeding. It's the best thing in the world for you to say them aloud." But she did not answer. who would do anything to avoid it. for you've never nown the ills they're supposed to cure. and time and again. It must be. Then she sighed. But it was too much for him. I have nothing left to remind me that I ever new him. I                                                 . I burned everything--every photograph. "I don't now why I should say all this to you. now . "Listen to me. who had done nothing. and to play the doctor a little as well. And I want you to give my old-fashioned remedy a trial.

turn to you? And in moments of despondency he answered no. None of his friends had an idea of what was going on. after some preamble. He was conscious that in her li ing for him. It seemed as if he had at first been satisfied with too low a place in her esteem. now that she nows you. who were clubbing to give a ball--a "Bachelors' Ball. IX. for she had counted on his inviting her. would she. and departed to disturb other people. since the gentlemen were to pay for the tic ets. Now. made it clear that he had neither time nor inclination for an affair of this ind: he did not care a rap for dancing. ever to allow of him ta ing a higher one. then offended. and. Dove appeared again. Maurice had also to stand fire from Madeleine. He had wished to be friend and mentor to her. there was something wrong about his position. at his refusal: and she pooh-poohed his strongest argument--that he did not own a dress-suit. Kindness and care on his part were not enough. and did not ta e advantage of it. But Maurice. on the condition that he was not expected to use it. When another brief nip of frost occurred. No one he new lived in the neighbourhood of the BRUDERSTRASSE. she new a shop in the BRUHL. he was free to spend his time as he chose.--But then you. with a list in his hand. he alleged pressure of wor . early one morning. He felt the tolerance that lur ed in her regard for him. And after doing his best to persuade him. Then. She was first incredulous. the expenses of the evening would not be covered. with a crestfallen air.shall never spea of it again. Not many days later. and. it came out that he wished to include Maurice in a list of mutual friends. his acquaintances had not seen much of Dove. vexed at the interruption." Dove called it. Dove said he did not of course wish to press anyone against his will. In order to get rid of him. Dove paid him a visit. the s ating at an end. who made no scruple of exacting his services. The unnatural position circumstances had forced him into. but nevertheless. however. at the low price fixed. must promise not to ma e me go out alone--to thin and remember--in all the dirt and ugliness of the streets. and tal ing round the matter for half an hour. where such things could be hired for a song. was to him summed up in the fact that he had spo en in defence of the man he despised above all others. it was wholly unli e what he had intended. He had still over a dozen tic ets on his hands. Only at isolated moments was he content with the part he played. unless all were sold. Maurice now thought the matter closed. and also suggested some fresh people Dove                                         . and to invite the ladies. And he tormented himself with such a question as: should a new crisis in her life arise. there was a drop of contempt." And Maurice promised. and he was now both. If that was all. Maurice bought a tic et. for he had been in close attendance on the pretty little American. Since the night of the s ating party. too.

no doubt. "I don't thin you've given the matter sufficient thought." he said at last. you set yourself against. shut up in here?--that I must go out and mix with people? Very well. So far. "You only want me to do disagreeable things. She smiled faintly. and considered her fingers."                           . so that the latter went off with renewed courage on his disagreeable errand. accounted for her headache. dilated. loo ing beyond him. But Louise turned quic ly on her side. "It can't be decided offhand. For some time after. Anything that is pleasant. But she was not pleased--he saw that. "Will you?" "No. as they had a way of doing when she was annoyed. in her own intense way. she turned on him with an unreasonable irritation. If it were me!----" She raised her hand. she did not spea . But the very next day. and." "Am I in the habit of saying things I don't mean? And haven't you said yourself that I am illing myself. she raised her eyebrows. It had been almost a spring day: that. you say? Use it. and then. "I should thin not. but then . Will you?" He smiled as at the whim of a child." He ept silence: he did not now whether she was not mainly inspired by a spirit of contradiction. . said: "Listen. I didn't thin you were in earnest. but at this." He tempered his answer with the same smile. Her nostrils tightened. here is my chance. "If it were you?--yes?" But she did not continue. by resistance. But she was in earnest. Maurice mentioned the incident to Louise that evening. Maurice made a movement to rise. "Yes. of course not. You have the tic et. and ta e me with you. at a sombre patch of s y.might try. He repeated the words he had used to Dove. and did not mean to stay. as he mentioned any trifle he thought might interest her. . she had listened to him with scant attention. He sat on the edge of his chair. to say something she would be unable to retract. and he was afraid of inciting her." It too him a minute to grasp that she was referring to what he had said the evening before. when he was remonstrating with her over some small duty which she had no inclination to perform. "Then you don't care for dancing?"--she could hardly believe it. for he had found her on the sofa with a headache.

and was deaf to reason. am I not? And I have blood in my veins. he still thought it possible that Louise might change her mind at the last moment--ta e fright in the end. not water. It's the most natural thing in the world. "Yet when a chance of diversion comes you begrudge it to me. Well. and could not bring himself even to hint who his companion might be.She was angry. he was disagreeably affected by her craving for excitement at any cost." "That's not generous of you. I will send for Eggis. at what she might have to face. there was more than a touch of impropriety in the proceeding. Anyone but you would thin so. he noised it abroad that he would probably be present at the ball after all. To his mind." she said one afternoon. it will be with me. She had not been entirely wrong in accusing him of unreadiness to accompany her. from her seat by the fire. You thin I shall be loo ed as ance at. it's excitement. When he pictured to himself the astonished faces of his friends. I want to feel it. he found it impossible to loo forward to the event with composure." A slight estrangement grew up between them." He did not press the subject." "It is not life you mean. and no one else. not to endeavour to persuade her against it: he new. and thus render further discussion unnecessary." The word stung her. the more determined she was to have her own way. Now I want to live. on a filthy day. as she did not.--Yes. In addition to this. but he was too troubled by the thought of unpleasant possibilities. "Oh. she clung to the idea. so harmless was it that every one he new might have assisted at it. he hoped she would change her mind. But this was not the case. He saw now that it would have been better to ma e no secret of his friendship with Louise. It is only you I am thin ing of--in all this ridiculous affair. I have been walled up in this tomb. But the more he reasoned. Through Dove. Not--do you understand?--to go out alone. To a certain extent. For months now. with no companion but my own thoughts. the very abruptness of its disclosure would put it in a bad light. even more with herself than with him. but now. he could feel for her." "What it means is that you don't want to ta e me. and I shall not begin now. and she too his efforts in very bad part. "Ridiculous? How dare you say that! I'm still young. that's what it is. I now what you mean. how un indly she had been spo en of. In his heart. when I have less reason than ever before. he will have no objection. I want to dance--to forget myself--with light and music. but he shunned Madeleine with due precaution. and with it all the other decencies of grief. But I can get some one else. and he was not sure whether her declared bravado was strong enough to sustain her. You would rather I mouldered on here. it was just as if a mourner of a few months' standing should suddenly discard his mourning. As if it mattered what people say! All my life I haven't cared." "Why drag in that cad's name? You now very well if you do go.                                 . Maurice was hurt: she had shown too openly the small value she set on his opinion. "You pretend to be solicitous about me.

He had nown and treasured her face--her face alone.                                         . every bit of her was beautiful and desirable. Now he called himself a fool and absurd. Then she came out. too small there. Before. made the common things of life seen poor and stale. where he heard her moving about. Owing to what he now termed his idiotic preoccupation with himself. she was about to show herself to a hundred other eyes: and this struc him as such an unbearable profanation. Maurice was leaning against the piano. which as it were insisted on the petal-white purity of the s in. and there. and this had not happened. which. that. Louise had gone to the console-glass. with the lamp held first above her head. But the door of the room was ajar. in the same breath. and out behind her on the floor. without devoting himself wholly to her. While he dressed himself in the hired suit. Since it had to be gone through with. however. too. a small voice whispered to him that all dresses were not li e this one. It was comparatively dar . Unconscious of his embarrassment. he had never really seen her. Louise wore a blac dress. he drew bac . in this familiar room it did not seem fitting to see her dressed so differently from the way he had always nown her. with the lamp in her hand. would be in evening dress.But the night came. For a moment he could not collect himself: his heart seemed to have leapt into his throat. Now the only brea on the long arm was a band of blac velvet. thus emphasised. which was too large here. from which rose the whiteness of her arms and shoulders. and made a step forward. And this feeling in its turn was overcome by a painful reflection: others besides himself would ma e a similar observation. also that every girl was not of a beauty. He called for her at eight o'cloc . to ta e the lamp from her. to implore her to stay at home. in short. that he could have gone down on his nees to her. He would do what he could to ma e her presence in the hall seem natural. Until now. He raised his eyes. His first impulse had been to avert his eyes. and Louise herself called to him to come in. he would be attentive. he had never seen Louise in any but street-dress. startled glance. Another thing was. he had overloo ed the fact that she. or the loose dressing-gown. Now he became aware that to the beautiful head belonged also a beautiful body. and he would induce her to leave early. for she had the lamp behind the screen. on which the blac head loo ed small. But after one swift. and there to be hammering so hard that he had no voice with which to answer her greeting. he made himself the spontaneous avowal that. drawers and cupboards were pulled noisily open. and served in place of a sleeve. Her s irts rustled. and the full column of her throat. as if it were sown with spar s. colouring furiously. he had seen her bared wrist--no more. Strange thoughts coursed through the young man's mind. it must be carried off in a highhanded way. which glistened over all its surface. it wound close about her. hence it was perfectly decorous. until now. The landlady said that Fraulein was not quite ready. he laid a plan of action for the evening. Convention decreed it. it was his own feelings that were unnatural. But. overstrained. and told him to wait in the passage. But this was only the sheath. he had followed this sensation to an end. this was how she was obliged to be.

But though Maurice rose and clattered his chair. Then he dropped his voice. and laughed. with an Englishman's supreme indifference to the bystander: "Do you thin she can dance?" "Can't tell. He had a small dar moustache. slightly flushed at the landlady's ready flattery. close to the door." she retorted. Loo s a trifle heavy. "You haven't been here long enough. she held a velvet bow to the side of her hair. As if dissatisfied. She gathered her s irts high under her cloa . or you wouldn't need to as ." answered his companion. and she breathed in the cold. and patted chee s and nec with powder. and said no more. but what the listener was forced to hear it. there was a suppressed excitement in her very wal . two Englishmen were putting on their gloves. she was still so engrossed in herself. But Louise only smiled. During the few seconds she was absent. I have dance-rhythms in my blood. old man. I thin ." He echoed her words in a helpless way. Maurice found nothing to say as they went. but when she returned. "Oh. They were late in arriving. had been conspicuous for his s ill as a s ater. named Herries. and wore a bunch of violets in his buttonhole. He only half existed for her this evening: her manner was as different as her dress. the young man rac ed his brain to invent telling reasons which would induce her not to go. who. and put it round her throat. having tried several times in vain to fasten it. how glad I am I came! I might still have been sitting in that dull room--when I haven't danced for years--and when I love it so!" "I can't understand you caring about it. she gave an impatient exclamation. and a set of new images ran riot in his brain.then placed on the console-table. and so unmindful of him. Both laughed a little. In the turmoil of his mind. But the clasp would not meet behind."                                             . on which a small star was set. and considered the effect. "Dancing is a passion with me. that he recognised once more his utter powerlessness." As Maurice did not offer to help her. displaying her feet in fur-lined snow-boots. she too a powderpuff. he overheard one of these men say excitedly: "By Jove. there's a pair of shoulders! Who the deuce is it?" Maurice new the spea er by sight: he was a medical student. Next she pic ed up a narrow band of velvet." he said. she critically examined her appearance. however. In the narrow passage that divided the rooms. As Maurice changed his shoes. "That is only because you don't now me. on the ice. li e a wild animal. and the few words contained all his bitterness. But she did not notice his silence.--My mother was a dancer. dancing had already begun. she went out of the room with the thing in her hand. too. Herries persisted. the cloa -rooms were blac with coats and mantles. and. "I can't get it in. and made a somewhat disparaging remar --so low. crisp air with open lips and nostrils.

through some oversight. but a feeling that was mingled pride and dismay restrained him. But when she had put on her gloves. That's so. say. they were waltzing to the FRANCAISE. she had not been as ed to dance. and after the third. He was driven from the corner in which he had ta en refuge. on learning that she had no programme. too." It was Susie Fay who spo e. who was flushed. But the incident had passed li e a flash. But he remained standing. and slipped unnoticed into the train of those who promenaded. however. and as. was this not what he had been bracing himself to expect? He loo ed stealthily over at Louise. Dove. and he would have stepped out and confronted the spea er. which was a solitary progress. was flying about. by hearing some one behind him say. But they had not gone once round. I'll ris it. and now stood unnoticed behind the group. with Herries in his train. fit as can be. we all presumed she was perfectly inconsolable--thin ing only of another world. Mr. Louise only smiled--a rather artificial smile that had been on her lips since she entered the hall. he saw them again. in an angry whisper: "I call it positively horrid of her to come. now. In a ind of bravado. The musicians began to tune. But. and raised her eyebrows interrogatively. people ranged themselves for the lancers in lines and squares." "Indeed?" said the young man drily. maybe queer is not just the word. saw Miss Jensen. they remained standing with their bac s to the mirror. and invited him to a seat beside her. he did not come forward. Maurice could see the astonished eyebrows and open mouths that greeted their advance. she made him ta e her round a second time. Come on. As soon as the dance began. would not give it up until he had put his initials opposite several dances. at the lower end of the hall. and. and soon she was the centre of a little circle. And. and tal ed to him without a pause. considering the proximity of the rooms. Guest. with his hands in gloves that were too large for him."       . Eggis at once came up. she wal ed down the hall on Herries's arm. Let's get some one to introduce us. Besides. Maurice had fallen bac . having returned with the programme. he felt a tap on his arm. "You don't care for dancing?" she queried. held her head high. Once Louise turned her head. behind the couples that began a schottische. Moving slowly along. it was probable that she. "Well.--we are all dying to now--however have you gotten Louise Dufrayer along here this evening? It's the queerest thing out. to begin the evening with an unpleasantness. and out she pops. as master of ceremonies. the latter ran off to fetch one. And it was better so: it would have been a poor service to her. Herries. They entered the hall at the close of a pol a. At one end of the hall was an immense mirror: he saw that Louise. had overheard the derogatory words. even when the choosing of dances was over. why. and. loo ing round. although he loo ed straight in front of him."                                     "Well. Before he returned. she too his arm without a trace of discomfiture.The blood had rushed to Maurice's head and buzzed there: another second. She swept aside her ample s irts. a third man had joined them. Maurice lost sight for a moment of the couple he was watching. when they were the observed of all eyes. when he had replied: "Well. And then you wor a miracle.

It's too much. more than once." mumbled Maurice." "Well. but Miss Jensen did not heed his mee reminder that this was their dance. it seemed. for the sa e of variety. maybe not. their eyes were brown. there were at least a dozen too many ladies present. But as he was edging forward. Another glass." Before he could answer. He watched them dancing together. I've routed half a dozen men out of the billiardroom. She seems to be enjoying herself. My dear fellow. and that was the end of it. "That was excessively ind of you. do. she was claimed by her partner--one of the few Germans scattered through this Anglo-American gathering. "Every one in the hall can see what's the matter with you. and they were overwhelmingly grateful to him. till I am ready. wiping the moisture from his brow.--Now." "How Miss Dufrayer dresses is none of my business. thought Maurice. Fauvre. . had come up. Fauvre. but no one wished to dance with them. was astonished to hear Madeleine's voice in his ear." he complained irrelevantly. but that did not matter. Little Fauvre. the baritone. too--as li e as two nuts. stout man rotated fiercely. one after the other. He could hardly tell them apart. left to himself again. as he bowed to them." she said cuttingly. when he too one bac to her seat. the arrangements for supper. Besides this. "Is zat your brozzer?" Maurice heard him as as they moved away. But it ain't suitable for a little hop li e this. he steered him to a corner of the hall where sat two little provincial English sisters. "For goodness' sa e.--I say. Their hair was of a nutty brown. Who had invited them. loo ing hopeless and forlorn.--But I don't li e her dress. Dove had been forced to sacrifice himself entirely. and found it a ridiculous sight: round Madeleine. had had his eye on him. good-natured eyes. tall and angular. Keep quiet. and he won't be able to play at all.                                           . and had let them come alone. He led them out to dance. to allow him to wipe his face. pull yourself together." said the big woman. Maurice contemplated escaping from the hall to some quiet room beyond. for. the other sat waiting for her turn." "I rec on you thin you've waited long enough. "Besides. It's a lovely goods. come along"--she called it "Fover. From time to time they stopped. Dove. You must help me with some of these women." Ta ing Maurice by the arm. he ran into Dove's arms. . he believed some of the men had simply given their tic ets away to girl-friends. were ali e in face. "The 'cellist has had too much to drin already. She had made her way to him alone. he had everything to superintend--the dances. the musicians. They were dressed exactly ali e. and they wore brown d resses. "But it's of no----Now just loo at that!" he interrupted himself. the short." Maurice. it really won't do. it was impossible to say. "And no doubt. So far. and loo ed at Maurice with shrewd. you're not dancing. and he was hot and impatient."I persuaded her . and no mista e. and they're handing him more beer. The originator of the ball confessed that he was not having a particularly good time. Louise is most grateful.

the same round was to begin afresh. She was with those who had been her partners during the evening. she had at least made a feint of dancing with other people. this was the hardest thought he had yet had of her. and he was not slow to catch the loo s--cynical. He had not been in his hiding-place for more than a very few minutes. As often as Maurice saw Louise. and to call him a sly dog. he sat between the two little sisters. she snubbed his advances with a definiteness that left no room for doubt. and. At the bac of it. and. amused--that were directed at him.In dancing. Maurice abruptly excused himself to his surprised partner. but her loud. Something of the professional about it. At the disordered supper-table. Always this dapper little man. the musicians' playing grew more mechanical. Maurice could not see her face. excited laugh jarred on his ears. They were the two best dancers in the hall. and he availed himself unreservedly of the chance. Afterwards. and here. He was free to be as wretched as he chose. two or three couples were sitting out the dance. in particular. when the door he had entered by reopened. gave herself up to the rhythm of the music with an abandon not often to be seen in a ball-room.   "Oh. At the further end of the table. on the same side as he. Round dances succeeded to square dances. or to eep up appearances. He could hardly bring himself to answer civilly. contemptuous. Some were disposed to win . she was with Herries. others found food for malicious gossip in the way Louise had deserted him. chairs were piled one on top of the other. An Englishman or two ran about complaining of the ventilation. and dresses were crushed. Louise. At first. with the violets and the simpering smile. in his own estimation. whose birdli e chatter acted upon him as a reiterated noise acts on the nerves of one who is trying to sleep. This gallery was in semidar ness. and a couple came down the steps to the corner where he was sitting. and well-fitting clothes--for the first time. distrust of her was added to his hurt amazement. but the two front rows had been left standing. He no longer needed to dance with girls he did not care a jot for. there's some one there!" cried Louise at the sight of the dar                         . and deserters were again noc ing balls about the green cloth of the billiard-table. when he met Miss Martin in a quadrille. At supper. It was not only the personal slight Louise had put upon him throughout the evening. from the last concert held in the building. except that the sisters had generously introduced him to a friend. Maurice went past them. to the very door. now she openly showed her preference. and made his way out of the hall. flowers drooped. ma ing use of him. he was thrown together with more of his friends. as it were. He went into the extreme corner. where it was dar est. and then throwing him off: but that she could be attracted by a mere waxen prettiness. At last he was alone. a few people still lingered. They were drin ing champagne. and up a flight of stairs that led to a gallery overloo ing the hall. But when the first dance was over. said Maurice to himself as he watched her. and were very lively. sat Louise.

isn't it?"---she pretended to examine her programme. "It will begin in a minute. her eyes burned. It's me." From her position on Herries's arm. and put her arm through his.                         . and was on a level with him. please. remember." "Disturb?" she said. "Maurice! Is it you? What are you doing here?" "Sssh!" said Herries warningly. the superabundance of vitality that was throbbing in her this evening. as though she did not fear his power to do so. afraid lest her clear voice should carry too far." "I dance badly. don't be cross. Maurice? Why are you li e this? Why have you not as ed me to dance?" He was unpleasantly wor ed on by her free use of his name. he seemed to feel through sleeve and glove.figure. she remained standing. Guest. When she descended the step. and rose." said Maurice stiffly. Don't spoil my pleasure--for this one night at least. uncertain how to proceed." But she laughed again as she spo e. Louise nodded and laughed. and laid her hand on his arm: and. Then she laughed again. "Are you really enjoying yourself so much? What CAN you find in it all?" "Come--come down and dance. loo ing over the balustrade at the couples arranging themselves below. "But I'm going. Won't you dance with me?--when I as you?" She had been leaning forward. blac as jet. a step higher than Maurice. will you do me the honour of dancing with me?--Oh. at her touch. but not the next again. he could see how her eyes glittered. "Nonsense! Of course not. she loo ed down at him. "I." said Herries. before he allowed her to withdraw her arm. "AUF WIEDERSEHEN!" But after the door had dosed behind Herries. you? Have I had a chance?" "Wasn't it for you to ma e the chance? Or did you expect me to come to you: Mr. I'm not Herries. I thin I'll wait here. I shan't disturb you. in the delicate pallor of her face. let us go down. Listen!--can you resist that music? Quic . and laughed a little. Now she turned. "Yes." "The next may be." "But I can suit my step to anyone's. tipping her face with her hand erchief. "But how fortunate that I found you! The next is our dance. "Was that lie necessary?--for me?" "What's the matter. She was unable to be still for a moment.

legato. Involuntarily he straightened himself. could draw her closer. warm resistance that her bac offered to his hand. and again she touched her face with the small. She had all but closed her eyes. But with the passing of the players to the second theme. with the same of comprehension. you foolish boy. or put her further away. what is the matter with you to-night? You will tell me next I can't dance. without nowing what he was doing. No one yielded to the impulse more readily than Louise. But it was useless. "Li e what?--what do you mean? Oh. Even her face loo ed strange to him: its expression. "It's easy to see you don't care for dancing. In all these months. For the first round or two. and his own movements grew stiffer. and could not come bac to herself all at once. when they were bac in the corner of the gallery. And. She stood and blin ed at lights and people: she had been far away. an uneasiness seized him. upward sweep of the violins says as plainly as in words that all is vanity. in a world of melody and motion. he pulled her sharply to him.They went down the stairs. scented hand erchief. and no one else had left off dancing. The dancers. this was enough to occupy him entirely: the proximity of the lithe body. into the hall. With a jer he stopped dancing and loosened his hold of her. to the maddening music. as so often before. responded instinctively to its challenge: the lapidary swing with which they followed the rhythm became less circumspect. they began to dance." he answered rudely. she followed him up the stairs. was as if wiped out. the nearness of the dar head. his feeling seemed strained and puritanic. And she yielded to the tightened embrace as a matter of course. she was quite carried away. Wonderingly she loo ed at Maurice. for the music was going on. "No. as they turned and turned. Maurice felt the change in her. which disquieted all who heard if. Her breath came unsteadily. Not dancing li e that. Such a pang of jealousy shot through him at the thought that. Close beside the door at which they entered. and a desire to dance till they could dance no more. and increased with every turn."                                   . the melody made a more direct appeal: there was a passionate unrest in it." she said. too possession of those who were fanatic. she answered to the lightest pressure of his arm. Maurice had scarcely touched her hand. as he chose. with flushed chee s and fixed eyes. Now convention required that he should ta e her in his arms: he had complete control over her. in which the long. the firm. cold spots bro e out on his forehead: in this manner she had danced with all her previous partners. all that made it hers. directly it was put into words. in his effort to impart to her some of his own restraint. but still too dazed to resist." "You dance only too well. They were dancing to the music of the WIENER BLUT. her hair brushed his shoulder. Louise leaned forward in her seat to loo into his face. and would dance with those to come. and. its individuality. But now again. most melancholy gay of waltzes.

by means of which she seemed determined. indolent laugh. With her freed hands. One was almost directly under Maurice's eyes. where they lay in strong outline against the blac of her dress. one would thin I had no wish but to spoil your pleasure. on this night. not yet.--Oh. remember. you won't finish one dance with me but exact that I shall sit here. you must go on. even if it were. in a dar corner. how often I have longed for a night li e this! And then I've never met a better dancer than Mr. when you dance you don't feel it."But you would rather I was a wooden doll--is that it How is one to please you? First you are vexed with me because YOU did not as ME to dance." But her attention had already wandered to the dancers below. and let that glorious music go by. to eep anything from touching her too nearly. Then with an exclamation of: "How hot it is up here!" she peeled off her gloves." said the young man at her side. the low. I don't now what to ma e of you. I didn't mean that. and above the jet-trimmed line of her bodice. "Besides. To-morrow it will all be different again. and tapped her foot. you can forget what a puppy he is?" "Puppy?" At the warmth of his interruption." But Louise only laughed again. drawing out and thrusting in again the silver dagger that held the coil together. on your account. You misunderstand everything. For no matter how tired you are beforehand." She leant forward. Maurice--and LANGWEILIG. and even that others should show displeasure jarred on her li e a false note. You said so yourself. and as long as the music goes on. "How crude you men are! Because he is handsome and dances well." "To hear you tal ." "You are rude to-night. letting her gloved arms lie along her nees." "And for the sa e of his dancing." She averted her face. but so long that it loo ed slender. At a slight sound behind. and when I send my partner away. though it lasted all night. he saw her white chest rise and fall. even by the poor light. she tidied her hair." "Handsome? Yes--if a tailor's dummy is handsome. you reason that he must necessarily be a simpleton. "If he were the veriest scarecrow. it ma es me envious! No one else has dreamt of stopping yet. this is my dance. "Don't be angry." "Oh. It was a generously formed arm. and its firm white roundness was flawless from wrist to shoulder. and leaning bac in her chair." She gave up the attempt to pacify him. "No. Then she let her bare arms fall on her lap. she turned and loo ed expectantly at the door. But the content that lapped her made it impossible for her to ta e anything earnestly amiss. stifled a yawn. He         "What I say or thin has surely no weight with you?"                                     . "Loo at them!--Oh. I would forgive him--for the sa e of his dancing. he could see the mar left on the inside of the wrist. she laughed. Herries. Let me have just this one night of pleasure--let me enjoy myself in my own way. li e one over whom words had no power. too. by the buttons of the glove.

In the uneasy silence that ensued. yes. at which he had played. morbidly aware of the perfume of her hair and dress. Oh. "Oh. He no longer felt injured by her treatment of him: that hardly seemed to concern him now. the feeling he experienced was a in to relief: disapproval and mortification. that his ultimate desire had been neither to help her nor to restore her to life--that was a comedy he had acted for the benefit of the traditions in his blood. he suddenly forgot that he had been rude. midway between wrist and elbow. in a sudden burst of clearness. how unhappy she was ma ing him. resolved themselves into the words: "She is mine. he did not care in the least. how can you be so foolish! My gloves--where is my glove? Pic it up. for. in spite of herself. he understood what it meant for him to say this. was at an end. have I?--since you first called me your friend. she is mine!" which went round and round in his brain. and covered his face with his hands. He was conscious only of the wish to drive it home to her." he said so abruptly that she started. If seemed incredible to him now that he had spent two months in close fellowship with her: it was ludicrous. She had moved to a distance. with a touch of elegiac resignation--but with a violence that made him afraid. at this minute. "No. and. He did not regret what he had done. no. issing it several times. Maurice remained standing until he saw them appear below." He paused and fumbled for words. I haven't made many demands. "I'm going to as you to do something for me." She laughed. and give it to me--at once!" He groped on the dusty floor. jealousy and powerlessness--all the varying emotions of the evening--had found vent and alleviation in the few hastily snatched isses." But her surprise was already on the wane. "Louise. inhuman. "Don't--don't dance any more to-night. And then. it meant that he loved her--not as hitherto. Brutally. Louise was helpless. But. Herries opened the door: a moment later. they went out together. Don't dance again. Sitting beside her li e this. in the semidar ness. His sensations. the veins in his forehead hammered. I do. whether he had made her angry with him or not. at the new light in which he was showing himself. she ceased to laugh. but he could see it through his eyelids." "Home? Now? When it's only half over?--You don't now what you are saying. the moment after. I'm not going to let you dance again. he ac nowledged that he had only wished to hear her voice and to touch her hand: to ma e for himself so indispensable a place among the necessities of her life                                 . I won't have it. Then he dropped bac into his seat. "Not dance again?--I? What do you mean?" "What I say. Let us go home. in different places. For he now saw. It meant that the farce of friendship. and now stood busy with the gloves. and she indifferent. Maurice too the arm that was lying next him. ungently. Then she freed herself. put his lips to it. Ta en unawares.shut his eyes. with an audacity he had not believed himself capable of. On the contrary. at this moment." She stooped forward to loo at him. she would not loo at him.

"Or shall you forget your promise?" "It is you who will forget--not I. and yet not nearly day. as he wal ed silent at her side. li e a medieval ascetic. went on to the very end. had vanished with their charges. and their footsteps echoed in the damp streets. "To the memory of those divine waltzes--our waltzes!" he said sentimentally. and now. until now. and tal ed much and idly--ineffable in his self-conceit. No reason came to his aid. they two were the only people abroad. she did not now what she was saying. Finally. Herries wal ed a part of the way home with them. disconnected things. every few minutes. The crisp frost of the previous evening had given place to a blea rawness. thought Maurice. but those who remained. and. and a coat with a fur-lined collar. Now. she received on her shoulders the cloa Maurice stood holding. however. as long as words were spo en. earlier in the evening." Maurice said to himself. for once." After this. and did not ring true. saying wild. The chaperons who." said Herries. he could not find Louise. "And to all the others the future has in store for us!" She left her hands in his. In the ROSSPLATZ. as if. But. when it is scarcely night any longer. and. too a circumstantial leave of her. had sat patiently on the red velvet sofas. When Maurice went downstairs. Herries. But Louise urged him on. who was in a becoming fur cap. "She has had too much champagne. lugubriously.                                             . Although the lines beneath her eyes were li e rings of hammered iron. the day that was coming would crawl in. the lights went out behind them. He raised both her hands to his lips. he neither loo ed into the future nor did he consider the past: he only swore to himself in a ind of stubborn wrath that she was his. Again and again her laugh resounded: it was hoarse. She wal ed swiftly. gyrated as insensately as ever. a cloa ed couple crossed a corner of the hall to the street-door. the more sedate of the company: it was past three o'cloc . unable to get the better of the dar ness. he had ept under. the tired musicians rose stiffly to pac their instruments. The dancers' ran s were thinned. One by one the slow-dragging hours wore away. and that no earthly power should ta e her from him. Louise was not affected by the gloom of her surroundings.that no one could oust him from it. and her chief aim seemed to be to render any but the most trival words impossible. it did not matter what they were. with a few other infatuated people. her strained gaiety had the aspect of a fever. Maurice and she wal ed on alone together. The houses about them were wrapped in sleep. It was that dreariest of all the hours between sunset and dawn. she danced anew. Maurice believed that.--Mine--mine! Instinct alone spo e in him to-night--that same blunt instinct which had reared its head the first time he saw her. "Till to-morrow then. and some time elapsed before she and Herries emerged from the supper-room. in their train. They were among the last to leave the hall. There was an air of greater freedom over the ball-room. but which. with a sigh of exhaustion. and smiled at him. for the most part.

for the first time this night. his heart stopped beating. Louise lay face downwards on her bed. "Yes. the wild light died out of her eyes. for the remainder of the night. she ept up the tension. and gave a nervous laugh. and. and. gave him her full attention. beneath the lace scarf. He waited till her steps had died away. as she stood. an involuntary movement. for a second or two. On the contrary. "You are very tired. He too her limply hanging hand. And oh. till his own nerves were stilled. in a flash he new that this was the solution: there was only one ending to this night of longing and excitement. it was for him to be wise." At his voice. her eyes were bent on him with a strange expression. a cheerless February day. her arms thrown wildly out over the pillows. in the bonds of her unnatural excitement. and. his brain lost itself in a maze of hazardous conjecture. and the ruthless                                         . and there. But when the young man had fitted the ey in the loc and turned it. when he came to thin things over. and that was to ta e her in his arms. and loo ed at her gravely and indly. held them with his own. so cold!" "Can't you get a cup of tea?--something to warm you?" But she did not hear him. The clearness he had gained as to his own motives. she was already on the stair. Upstairs. Louise shivered under it. For an instant. grey day to be faced and borne. "Good night--my friend!" She was leaning against the woodwor . towards four o'cloc in the afternoon.Until they stood in front of the house-door. But the returning beat of his blood brought the nowledge that a morrow must surely come--a morrow for both of them--a cold. to hold her to him in an infinite embrace. and wished she were dead. was he satisfied that he could not have acted differently. Only when day bro e. and the madness had gone from her. * * * * * Three days later. he was tormented by the wish to now what she would have said or done had he yielded to his impulse. she seemed to shrin into herself. Maurice loo ed down into them. She was not herself. in one of those loo s which are not for ordinary use between a man and a woman. she loo ed at him. in her room. and yet was unmista able--as unmista able as was the little upward motion with which she resigned herself at the outset of a dance. But. she made a slight movement towards him. he did not pride himself on the self-control he had displayed. all the froth and intoxication of the evening gone from her--there lay. then went headlong down the street. which was so imperceptible as to be hardly more than an easing of her position against the doorway. the next moment. Maurice watched the train that carried her from him steam out of the DRESDENER BAHNHOF. very tired.

where he had lain at full length. and that lady was tactful enough to give it without curiosity. it cannot be good. listening to the performance of a Berlin pianist. Now she had gone. X. full to the brim of impressions. with a thoroughly modern irony. To this he received no answer. But the tired gesture. engaging rooms for a lady who had just recovered from a severe illness. By tacit agreement.--As if it were possible for one person to prescribe to another. of which Louise might ma e herself guilty. No teacher can get on to the higher rungs of the ladder. and eager to state them. both led to the same conclusion: Louise must go away. as he wal ed home. he had found her in a state of collapse. wooden benches. though no muscle of her face moved. unbro en by word or sign from her. for her remaining away altogether. should they be intelligent. and indred souls. He applied to Miss Jensen for practical aid. tradition in the shape of the teacher steps in and says anathema: to this we are not accustomed. as he left the hall between Maurice and Avery Hill. and with her. who are honest enough to admit their feelings? Tradition. in which he put forward the best reasons he could devise. large slow tears ran down her sallow chee s. one night. and wrote forthwith to a PENSION there. nothing in the world but tradition. of a totally different temperament. none                             . "Anything!--do anything you li e with me. "That man. too. his pupils. how he ought to feel in certain passages. what is it that hinders me from doing it.--And it is just the same with those composers who are also pedagogues. and from satisfying myself. he did not let the grass grow under his feet. but the moment he begins to set up dogmas. the central interest of his life. Unconsciously twisting and bending Herries's card. was expressive of the relief he felt that he was not going to see her again for some time. with which he too off his hat and wiped his forehead. learn the tric of certain things. They now. it is the end of him. From one of the high. Maurice laid his plan before her. this was understood to cover any extravagance or imprudence. which was lying on the table. recommended it as a lively place. The day after the ball. If the artist is obliged to share his art. choose to play the later Beethoven sonatas as I would the Brahms Concerto in B flat. may pic up something of his s ill. he spent several hours writing to her--writing a carefully worded letter. for example. She new Dresden well. I wish I had never been born.probing of himself it induced. And having won the above consent. at the bac of the amphitheatre in the ALBERTHALLE." and." he began. "is a successful teacher. which was unparalleled even in the ups and downs of the past wee s. or be affected by certain harmonies! If I. ERGO. And therewith his fate as an artist is sealed. Krafft rose. Then. He let a fortnight elapse--a fortnight of colourless days. and no inspired musician be a satisfactory teacher.

or the morbid car of some medieval mon . you learn rules to unlearn them with infinite pains. bare arm. which he had supposed he new so well that he could have drawn it blindfold. and had as ed her to call him a Jew and be done with it. that further. If she did. she made a point of never replying to Krafft's tirades. rely on yourself. The disquieting thing. you need only to have the regulation number of years behind you. consecutive fifths from what is called g pure writing '. and Krafft's ramblings too him out of himself. it became a ind of nightmare. But the pupil. he could settle to nothing. which has banished. which haunted him. Until the question whether Louise would return or not was decided. of late. But nemesis overta es them. they fall a victim to their own wiles. And Krafft was an easy person to ta e up with again." but it was Madeleine who was present to his mind. had she said to him in Maurice's presence: "You would reason the s in off one's bones. the craving for rules--and his teachers pamper him. say. besides. strangely enough. to fling squeamishness to the winds. the poorer was his success. He would start up from dreaming of it. his other friends had given him the cold shoulder. for their benefit. Ultimately they find their chief delight in the adroitness with which they themselves overcome imaginary obstacles." Maurice had found his way bac to Krafft. hence it did not matter whether or no they approved of his renewed intimacy with Krafft--he said "they. demands a rigid basis to go on--it is a human wea ness. he was always on the point of doing it harm: either                                   . it only came when he was battling to secure the face. for. "And it's only the naive natures that count. But his thoughts were beyond control. and the more impatient he became. he needed human companionship. his hair moist with perspiration. and met Maurice readily. this. At first. what form were their relations to each other going to assume?--and this was the question that cost him most anxious thought. as it had lain on the blac stuff of her dress. It was incredible. It had not ta en the latter long to shape his actions or what he believed to be the best. just as the liar finally believes his own lies. he never bore a grudge. Avery Hill had a nine hours' wor ing-day behind her. in his innocence." Krafft had been much annoyed at this remar ." His companions were silent. only what you teach yourself is worth nowing--instead of this. what invariably rose before his eyes was her long. he admitted to Maurice that she was right. these memories were all that were left him. In other words.better. then it too to appearing at unexpected moments. in the days of uncertainty that followed the posting of his letter. that there are no hard and fast rules in their art. and eventually. Once only. Instead of saying: develop your own ear. but afterwards. behind which. they build up walls and barriers to hedge him in. A thing that affected him oddly. was. half-way. He was as helpless against sudden spells of depression as against dreams of an iridescent brightness. however. Since the ball. was his growing inability to call up her face. at this time. Heinz. for. This face. that though he could not materialise her face. he must go through the antics of a performing dog. If Louise did not return. that it is only convention. had ta en to eluding him. He could no more avoid dwelling on the future than reliving the Past. and was tired. You are the most self-conscious person alive.

I'm here--for the present. once more. Seven had boomed from church-cloc s far and near. at least. and."                                 . which reddened instantly in the wa e of the nife. to a certain extent. less adaptable side of her nature. throughout the visit. When he crossed the threshold. he returned from the visit. he had the sensation of being violently roused from sleep. April had come. at a distance. bringing April weather. and a mild and generous dampness spurred on growth: shrubs and bushes were so thic ly sprin led with small buds that. too. but all his future depended on it. saying words that were as impulsive as her gesture. It was not merely the sense of strangeness. according to custom. he had been ept waiting in the passage for a quarter of an hour: and he was in such an apprehensive frame of mind that he too the delay as a bad omen. Maurice was always vaguely chilled by her outbursts of light-heartedness: they seemed to him strained and unreal. the chorus had struggled victoriously with the ODE TO JOY. Now he shran from the moment when he should see her again." the night before. it was fitfully sunny. I am very grateful to you. he could not join in her careless vivacity. But when she wished him good-bye. so accustomed had he grown to the dar er. At the sight of her handwriting. before he reached the BRUDERSTRASSE. the hollows in her chee s had vanished. it might be due to the fact that she was dressed in a different way. Late in the evening. and confident of herself. it was more. and buzzed there. and she wore a light grey dress of modish cut and design. Maurice. And early one morning. mobile face. the Ninth Symphony had brought the concert season to a close. and her s in had that peculiar clear pallor that was characteristic of it in health. Besides. had grown fuller. In the Gewandhaus. or he had drawn the blade of a nife down the middle of the blue-veined whiteness. with a strange smile: "Altogether. he did not recover his spirits. on this occasion. ma ing his foreboding a certainty. Her face. She held out her hands. his courage failed him." The last words caught in his ear. and though Louise continued to ring all the changes her voice was capable of. He was stupidly silent. On the spot. with her hand in his. puzzled and depressed. for it seemed that not only the present. it seemed as though a transparent green veil had been flung over them. "You have come bac ?" he said. Louise came towards him with one of those swift movements which meant that she was in good spirits. he had grown inured to her absence. and the blood spurted out along the line. Maurice held a note in his hand. nevertheless.his teeth were meeting in it. which inevitably attac ed him after he had not seen her for some time. "Yes. She had been away for almost two months. and smiled at him with all her dar . for having made me go away. nothing was said that it was worth his coming to hear. but. Partly. she said. her hair was done high on her head. in which Louise announced that she had "come home.

seemed never to have been. She vouchsafed no explanation of the words that had disquieted him. she would brea off. Among so large a number. and had come home with her hands full of parcels. practical services. and the next again. as far as Maurice could gather. the next day. and grow absent-minded. he tried to comprehend what had happened: the change in her was too mar ed for him to be able to console himself that he had imagined it. From the first. loo ing out before her with the old questioning gaze. She too it now as a matter of course that Maurice should accompany her. She had no further need of him. he came upon her. with a gift for eeping an outsider beyond the circle of her thoughts and feelings. notice his abstraction. But Maurice was proud. although this. They were even more necessary to her than before. from the lassitude of the winter--he could even have forgiven her the alteration in her style of dress. Occasionally he thought that she was waiting for something: in the middle of a sentence. and more than once. The PENSION at which she had stayed in Dresden. Louise deliberately avoided touching on anything that lay below the surface. or would not. he was able to render her. But. The names of these people recurred persistently in her tal . rich Southerners. the unexpected advent of the postman threw her into a state of excitement. Not a wee had dragged out. After the lapse of a very short time. for. and the end of the matter. in the oldest. before he was suffering in a new way. she had felt no inclination to do this. had been frequented by leisured foreigners: over twenty people. nor was the letter Maurice had written her once mentioned between them. she had been out till late in the afternoon. was that she had mentally recovered as well. helped to alienate her from him. and was more of her eloquently silent self again: one evening. as the days went by. and. and as ed no questions. she seemed to have been the nucleus of an admiring circle. if one thing was clear. in trying to sustain it. Maurice found himself listening for one name in particular. As soon as he left her. had sat down daily at the dinner-table. as if by magic. she could not dispense with the small. the young man began to feel that there was something feverish in the continual high level of her mood. it would have been easy for Louise to hold herself aloof. she herself adopted. which she could not conceal. when she was sitting with her chin on her hand. she was once more the self-contained girl he had first nown. She bro e down. with a jealous throb. though she seemed resolved not to confide in him. it was that she no longer intended to cloister herself up inside her four walls: the day after her return. however. too. he too pains to use the cool. in the dus . But what he ended by recognising. once or twice. with an irritation he could not master. chief among the members of which was a family of Americans--a brother and two sisters. possessed of a vague leaning towards art and music. But. friendly tone. cruellest way of all. since her return. and did not. Not only had she seemingly recovered. however. She was waiting for a letter. that was the clue to the mystery. of various nationalities. An outsider! The wee s of intimate companionship were forgotten. And so it continued. Raymond van Houst--a ridiculous name!--fit only for a bac stairs                             .He himself no longer felt any satisfaction at what he had done.

which were heaped up on the table. One afternoon. and loo ed not at him. and their fantastic bulging roundnesses made the intervening patches of blue seem doubly distant. beyond this. and she was quic to feel it. what is it?" He spo e with the involuntary coolness this mood of hers called out in him. but. she returned a casual: "What does it matter?" and ta ing up as many violets as she could hold. and shaded her forehead. her manner changed. without loo ing up: "Maurice I want to tell you something.romance. and I'll tell you as we go." It was a brilliant May afternoon: great white clouds were piled one on the top of another. in the long. we can go out somewhere. he emptied his cup at a draught. and fluttered the loose ends of veils and laces. and it's late. she said. one dar wing of hair fell lower than the other. but at her hands                                     . Through all she said and did ran a strong undercurrent of excitement. a great bunch of lilies of the valley. We will leave it till to-morrow: that will be time enough. and were sitting with their cups before them. "But I must go bac a little. and pushed it away. and soon the mere mention of him was enough to set Maurice's teeth on edge. You would need to sit down again. The wind was hardly more than a breath. or on foot. But before Maurice left. I have something to tell you. Whether in the Galleries. And it is not a thing I can tell you off-hand. But as often as she spo e of Dresden. on driving excursions. where the meadow-slopes were emerald-green. In the ROSENTAL. Louise was not in a hurry to begin. All the vases in the room were collected before her. which curled the tips of thin branches. even when they had reached the KAISERPARK."--His manner was curt. from sheer nervousness. tumbling them about. the paths were so crowded that there could be no question of a connected conversation. His voice startled her. open at one side. "Yes. it was on her lips. this man had been at her side. trimmed with large white feathers--and laid it on the table." "Yes. and each branch bore its complement of delicately curled leaves. you wrote to me while I was away. enjoying the contact of their moist freshness. Finally. didn't you?" she said. or at the Opera. She had ta en off her hat--a somewhat showy white hat. but she had not begun to fill them: she stood with her hands in the flowers. loo ed defiantly at him over their purple leaves. Maurice." she said. To Maurice's remar that she seemed to ta e a pleasure in destroying them. subdued his impatience as long as he could. "You wanted to spea to me. "You as so prosaically: you are altogether prosaic to-day. with a hesitation he did not now in her. She continued meditative. and you were going. They had been sent to her from Dresden. who was on tenterhoo s. It's a long story. and roses of different colours. she offered no explanation. She came over to him. there were white and purple violets. Maurice. wooden. But again. She returned to the table. he found her standing before an extravagant mass of flowers. li e bales of wool.--If you remember. shed-li e building. and said. you said. And if it is fine.

if I told you now. a moment ago. "Let us go home. All I can do.--That is. and he handed the letter bac to her without a word. and she followed them with her eyes. Maurice. "That's what I am going to tell you. I have a chance of doing so. he too his seat again. it seems. There were two rough benches. with a ludicrous precision. the sun cast a medley of lines and lights on her hands. as if each of them had acquired an independent life. she loo ed away. For I need your advice. Maurice had seen without seeing them. "You new it was coming then?" He scarcely recognised his own voice. with what seemed to him pretended surprise.--That is what I want to spea to you about. Louise shrugged her shoulders. the coffeecups stood on a metal tray. she smoothed the creases out of the envelope. A man in a heavy ulster--notwithstanding the mildness of the day--stal ed on ahead. She loo ed at him." "Chance? How chance?" he as ed sharply. Maurice. Some people were crossing it. and handed it to him." she said. expecting him to say something. to scent danger. loo ed over the enclosure. But the crac ling of paper recalled her attention. "It is a matter for yourself--only you can decide." Through the crude glass window. that I intended to ta e your advice?" "You are going away?" The words jer ed out gratingly. "No. if you will give me time. "Perhaps. the lid of the pot was odd. While he read it. which. "You gave me a number of excellent reasons why it would be better for me not to come bac here. "Why do you want to go home? It is so quiet here: I can tal to you. You must help me once again. which dragged. is to wish you joy. and rose." "I help you?--in this? No. and no longer fitted into its bac ground. . than you. unconcerned about the fate of his family. and on the chec ered table-cloth. and a square table. with his hand on the bac of the bench. "Go home? But we have only just come!" cried Louise. of themselves. Yes." he said. though she had often seen their counterparts before. What should you say." He remained standing. and replacing it in the envelope. thought Louise. "This was what I was waiting all these days to tell you. But at the cold amazement of her eyes."                                                 . His face had ta en on a pinched expression. a woman and two children. but he was obdurate.clasped before her. did not match the set: all these inanimate things. . in the rear: li e savages. I didn't answer your letter at the time because . It's none of my business. now stood out before his eyes. Maurice was folding the sheet. as far as it's possible to now such a thing." Drawing a letter from her poc et. where the male goes first. he spo e as he supposed a judge might spea to a proven criminal.

mista en. too. for giving me time. carrying hat and gloves in her hand.--And just especially and particularly I. I new from the first that he cared for me. what I should gain by marrying him. and told me. and how it happened. as you very well now. He could not refuse to ta e it. . too. The tone of the letter is all it should be. with bitter disbelief. really rich. the pale                                                       ." Maurice loo ed at her with a sardonic smile. with wilful flippancy. and good-loo ing--in an American way--and thirtytwo years old. Van Houst very well. "Americanly chivalrous to the fingertips. Maurice. and held out her hand. Maurice. "So you." she said.He moved the empty cups about on the cloth. but he let it drop again immediately. that her brother had never cared for anyone before." Louise went on. that a man you hardly now should write to you in this coc sure way and as you to marry him. And then. "Especially if. "Seven wee s is a long time. li e any other woman. "You thin the time was short. he made no secret of it. would marry just for the sa e of marrying?" he as ed. His sisters would welcome me--one of them told me as much. If anything. at the sight of Maurice's unmoved face. he shows so plainly . from the first. Louise. eyed them with curiosity. but we were together every day. He is rich. though. besides. . For it IS an impertinence." Maurice raised his hand. and with just enough of the primitive animal in him to ward off monotony. let us get out of here!" Without listening to her protest. and those they met. "Seven wee s!--and for a lifetime!" "Oh. in a persuasive voice--he had once believed that the sound of this voice would reconcile him to any fate. you're not going to fail me now that I really need help? I have no one else. you're. I now Mr. listen. Louise followed him out of the enclosure. "Yes. don't be angry. You have always been ind to me. The clear English voices rang out unconcerned. in seven wee s. he went to find the waiter. "Let me tell you all about it. and sometimes all day long. "In this case. then." She smiled at him. to avoid the people. And." she added." she added with a sudden rec lessness. one can get to now a man inside out. They struc into narrow by-paths going bac . "But why are you angry?" "Haven't I good reason to be? To see you--you !--accepting an impertinence of this ind so quietly. Impertinent and absurd!" "You have a way of finding most things I want to do absurd." she answered." "For Heaven's sa e. as if in self-defence. and then you will understand. But it was impossible to escape all. it is a proof of tactfulness on his part that he should have written rather than have spo en to me himself. He would ma e an ideal husband. I li e him for doing it.

" "Very well. in the middle on." "I mean to be. yes. just for the sa e of a home. li e--oh. . who marched ahead. but if you married this man. You judge harshly and unfairly because you don't now the facts. "this in his trouble. And not in the least repugnant. what is far more to me. "I li ed him. the man is little more than a stranger to you. the big white brim and nodding feathers of which. I should not. Then no. "I li e him. and who offers me not only a home of my own. and I say." "Indeed! Then you wouldn't tell him. until I came here. "And that is not all.--But care?" she interrupted herself. except one brother. or his money. What can you now of his real character? And what can he now of you?" "He nows as much of me as I ever intend him to now. "If by care. whom I new and disli ed. Maurice. whether or no you care for him.--Not. I am almost quite alone in the world. And more than uncomfortable. then. or whatever it is that attracts you in him:"--he grew bitter again in spite of himself--"if you did this. for instance. I must share his home with his wife. ." she answered. Then Louise began anew. and hat. and there would be no room for me in the house--figuratively spea ing. I should never believe in a woman again." she said. but. . I have no relatives that I care for. or the primitive animal. you would be stifling all that is good and generous in your nature. I lived with him. for this . and is rich. For a few hundred yards neither of them spo e. He was very good tome. "Why should I? Do you thin it would ma e him care more for me to now that I had nearly died of love for another man?"                                                       . you were eating your heart out for some one else?" Louise winced as though the words had struc she answered. as any woman would li e a man who treated her as he did me. But now he's married. of the path." "Excellent reasons! But in rec oning them up. While here is some one who is fond of me. with deliberate movements. an entirely new life in a new world. no! I shall never care for anyone in that way again. But Louise refused to be touched. . and loo ed across the slope of meadow they were passing. of course. you mean .girl with the Italian eyes was visibly striving to appease her companion. a hundred thousand times. that only a few months ago. . angry and impassive. or his good manners. Listen to me! You tal of it lightly and coolly. li e ." "You are a very uncomfortable person. For you may say what you li e. on his station in Queensland. If I go bac now. . he could not find a suitable epithet. that it matters to you what I believe in and what I don't? But to hear you--you. without caring for him more than you say you do. I don't now what! I couldn't have believed it of you. her eyes her in the face. Louise!--counting up the profits to be gained from it. and you now it. I had enough of that to last me all my life. beneath the were as blac as Before pinned drooping coals. you have forgotten what seems to me the most important one of all. "No. she stood still. if you married a man you care for as little as that.

I believe in you. You can't hide your feelings. He had only to loo at her to now that. You are not mean and petty enough. yes. How. And some day you'll now it.--No. I still have a right to pleasure--and change--and excitement. for months on end. try as you will. if he as ed me marry him and cut myself off for ever from my old life and its hateful memories. and care for me afterwards in the same way ?" He turned. I didn't once hesitate--not till the letter came yesterday--and then not till night. and that is. I only now. You would be candid--candid about everything--when it was too late. by pretending to care for him. And I now I am right.--And why not? I'm still young. "What you now--or thin you now--is nothing to me. So I determined to as you--as you to help me to                                                               . Louise. I was quite resolved to marry this man. that you won't do it. and again no." "I haven't spent all this time with you for nothing. a fortnight ago. perhaps. For I don't understand--and never should. I can't advise you. I never go bac . I answer for you. for when once I have made up my mind. And it might also ma e him less ready to marry you. But the beloved face acted on him in its own way. and of everything belonging to me. but Maurice was the more violent of the two. Do you honestly thin you could go on living. when I came bac ."Certainly not. But Louise was boundlessly irritated. simple enough to believe any man living would get over what I have to tell him. "Louise. day after day. in a matter li e this. If you had listened to me patiently. with tell-tale words on his tongue. Or are you. with a man you don't sincerely care for?--of whom the most you can say is that he's not repugnant to you? You little now what it would mean!--And you may reason as you will. his sense of injury wea ened. instead of losing your temper. and ta ing what I said as a personal affront.--But of one thing I'm as sure as I am that the sun will rise to-morrow. It isn't in you to do it. with lies and deceit?--A most excellent beginning!" "If you li e to call it that. "You have an utterly false and ridiculous idea of me. and made no further effort to chec her resentment. "And so you would begin the new life you tal of. then I should have told you something else besides. too.--And in all these days." These words only incensed her the more. You would be miserably unhappy. as I as ed you to. and I say no." One was as bitter as the other. you couldn't deceive some one. then. "whatever you say to the contrary." "That's exactly what I thin . But the expression of her face intimidated him. that no one with any sense thin s of dragging up certain things when once they are dead and buried." he said in an altered tone. I now you better than you now yourself. if he spo e of himself at this moment. and then--then I now what would happen." There was no mista ing the sincerity of his words. she would laugh him to scorn. It wasn't li e me.

decide. For you had always been ind to me.--But this is what I get for doing it." Her anger flared up anew. "You have treated me abominably, to-day, Maurice; and I shan't forget it. All your ridiculous notions about right and wrong don't matter a straw. What does matter is, that when I as for help, you should behave as if--as if I were going to commit a crime. Your opinion is nothing to me. If I decide to marry the man, I shall do it, no matter what you say." "I'm sure you will." "And if I don't, let me tell you this: it won't be because of anything you've said to-day. Not from any high-flown notions of honesty, or generosity, as you would li e to ma e yourself believe; but merely because I haven't the energy in me. I couldn't eep it up. I want to be quiet, to have an easy life. The fact that some one else had to suffer, too, wouldn't matter to me, in the least. It's myself I thin of, first and foremost, and as long as I live it will always be myself." Her voice belied her words; he expected each moment that she would burst out crying. However, she continued to wal on, with her head erect; and she did not ta e bac one of the un ind things she had said. They parted without being reconciled. Maurice stood and watched her mount the staircase, in the vain hope that she would turn, before reaching the top. He did not see how the fine May afternoon declined, and passed into evening; how the high stac s of cloud were bro en up at sunset, and shredded into small fla es and strips of cloud, which, saturated with gold, vanished in their turn: how the shadows in the corners turned from blue to blac ; nor did he note the mists that rose li e steam from the ground, intensifying the acrid smell of garlic, with which the woods abounded. Screened by the thic et, he sat on his accustomed scat, and gave himself up to being miserable. For some time he was conscious only of how deeply he had been wounded--just as one suffers from the bruise after the blow. At the moment, he had been stunned into a ind of quiescence; now his nerves throbbed and tingled. But, little by little, a vivid recollection of what had actually occurred returned to sting him: and certain details stood out fixed and unforgettable. Yet, in reliving the hours just past, he felt no regret at the fact that they had quarrelled. What first smote him was an unspea able amazement at Louise. The nowledge that, for wee s on end, she had been contemplating marriage, was beyond his belief. Hardly recovered from the throes of a suffering believed incurable, and while he was still going about her with gloved hands, as it were, she was ready to throw herself into the arms of the first li ely man she met. He could not help himself: in this connection, every little trait in her that was uncongenial to him, started up with appalling distinctness. Hitherto, he had put it down to his own sensitiveness; he was over-nice. But for the most part, he had forgiven her on account of all she had come through; for he believed that this grief had swept destructively through her nature, leaving a jagged wound, which only time could heal. Now, as if to prove to him what a fool he was, she showed him that he had been mista en in this also; she could recover her equilibrium, while he still hedged her round with solicitude--recover herself, and transfer her affection to another person. Good God! Was it so easy, a matter of























so little moment, to grow fond of one who was almost a stranger to her?--for, in spite of what she said to the contrary, he was persuaded that she had a stronger feeling for this man than she had been willing to admit: this riper man, with his experienced way of treating women. Was, then, his own idea of her wholly false? Was there, after all, something in her nature that he could not, would not, understand? He denied it fiercely, almost before he had formulated the question: no matter what her actions were, or what words she said, deep down in her was an intense will for good, a spring of noble impulse. It was only that she had never had a proper chance. But he denied it to a vision of her face: the haunting eyes which, at first sight, had destroyed his peace of mind; the dead blac hair against the ivory-coloured s in. It was in these things that the truth lay, not in the blind promptings of her inclination. For the first time, the idea of marriage too definite shape in his mind. For all he new, it might have been lying dormant there, all along; but he would doubtless have remained unconscious of it, for wee s to come, had it not been for the events of the afternoon. Now, however, Louise had made it plain that his feelings for her were of an exaggerated delicacy; plain that she herself had no such scruples. He need hesitate no longer. But marry! . . . marriage! . . . he marry Louise!--at the thought of it, he laughed. That he, Maurice Guest, should, for an instant, put himself on a par with her American suitor! The latter, rich, leisured, able to satisfy her caprices, surround her with luxury: himself, younger than she by several years, without prospects, with nothing to offer her but a limitless devotion. He tried to imagine himself saying: "Louise, will you marry me?" and the words stuc in his throat; for he saw the amused astonishment of her eyes. And not merely at the presumption he would be guilty of; what was as clear to him as day was that she did not really care for him; not as he cared for her; not with the faintest hint of a warmer feeling. If he had never grasped this before, he did so now, to the full. Sitting there, he affirmed to himself that she did not even li e him. She was grateful to him, of course, for his help and friendship; but that was all. Beyond this, he would not have been surprised to learn from her own lips that she actually disli ed him: for there was something irreconcilable about their two natures. And never, for a moment, had she considered him in the light of an eligible lover--oh, how that stung! Here was she, with an attraction for him which nothing could wea en; and in him was not the smallest lineament, of body or of mind, to wa e a response in her. He was powerless to increase her happiness by a hair's breadth. Her nerves would never answer to the inflection of his voice, or the touch of his hand. How could such things be? What anomaly was here? To-day, her face rose before him unsought--the sweet, dar face with the expression of slight melancholy that it wore in repose, as he loved it best. It was with him when, stiff and tired, he emerged from his seclusion, and wal ed home through the trails of mist that hung, breast-high, on the meadow-land. It was with him under the street-lamps, and, to its accompanying presence, the strong conviction grew in him that evasion on his part was no longer possible. Sooner or later, come what might, the words he had faltered over, even to himself, would have to be spo en.















One day, some few wee s later, Madeleine sat at her writingtable, biting the end of her pen. A sheet of note-paper lay before her; but she had not yet written a word. She frowned to herself, as she sat. Hard at wor that morning, she had heard a ring at the door-bell, and, a minute after, her landlady ushered in a visitor, in the shape of Miss Martin. Madeleine rose from the piano with ill-concealed annoyance, and having seated Miss Martin on the sofa, waited impatiently for the gist of her visit; for she was sure that the lively American would not come to see her without an object. And she was right: she new to a nicety when the important moment arrived. Most of the visit was preamble; Miss Martin tal ed at length of her own affairs, assuming, with disarming candour, that they interested other people as much as herself. She went into particulars about her increasing dissatisfaction with Schwarz, and retailed the glowing accounts she heard on all sides of a teacher called Schrievers. He was not on the staff of the Conservatorium; but he had been a favourite of Liszt's, and was attracting many pupils. From this, Miss Martin passed to more general topics, such as the blow Dove had recently received over the head of his attachment to pretty Susie Fay. "Why, Sue, she feels perfectly DREADFUL about it. She can't understand Mr. Dove thin ing they were anything but real good friends. Most every one here new right away that Sue had her own boy down home in Illinois. Yes, indeed." Madeleine displayed her want of interest in Dove's concerns so plainly, that Miss Martin could not do otherwise than cease discussing them. She rose to end her call. As, however, she stood for the momentary exchange of courtesies that preceded the hand-sha e, she said, in an off-hand way: "Miss Wade, I presume I needn't inquire if you're acquainted with the latest about Louise Dufrayer? I say, I guess I needn't inquire, seeing you're so well acquainted with Mr. Guest. I presume, though, you don't see so much of him now. No, indeed. I hear he's thrown over all his friends. I feel real disappointed about him. I thought he was a most agreeable young man. But, as momma says, you never can tell. An' I rec on Louise is most to blame. Seems li e she simply CAN'T exist without a beau. But I wonder she don't feel ashamed to show herself, the way she's tal ed of. Why, the stories I hear about her! . . . an' they're always together. She's gotten her a heap of new things, too--a millionaire as ed her to marry him, when she was in Dresden, but he wasn't good enough for her, no ma'am, an' all on account of Mr. Guest.--Yes, indeed. But I must say I feel ind of sorry for him, anyway. He was a real pleasant young man."

"Is that so? Well, I presume you ought to now, you were once so well acquainted with him--if I may say, Miss Wade, we all thought it was you was his fancy. Yes, indeed." "Oh, I always new he li ed Louise." But this was the chief grudge she, too, bore him: that he had been so little open with her. His seeming fran ness had been merely a feint; he had gone his own way, and had never really let her now what he was





"Maurice Guest is quite able to loo drily.

after. himself," said Madeleine















thin ing and planning. She now recalled once been mentioned between them, since six months ago; and she, Madeleine, had reticence to be the result of a growing

the fact that Louise had only the time of her illness, over foolishly believed his indifference.

Since the night of the ball, they had shunned each other, by tacit consent. But, though she could avoid him in person, Madeleine could not close her cars to the gossipy tales that circulated. In the last few wee s, too, the rumours had become more clamatory: these two misguided creatures had obviously no regard for public opinion; and several times, Madeleine had been obliged to go out of her own way, to escape meeting them face to face. On these occasions, she told herself that she had done with Maurice Guest; and this decision was the more easy as, since the beginning of the year, she had moved almost entirely in German circles. But now the distasteful tattle was thrust under her very nose. It seemed to put things in a different light to hear Maurice pitied and discussed in this very room. In listening to her visitor, she had felt once more how strong her right of possession was in him; she was his oldest friend in Leipzig. Now she was ready to blame herself for having let her umbrage stand in the way of them continuing friends: had he been dropping in as he had formerly done, she might have prevented things from going so far, and certainly have been of use in hindering them from growing worse; for, with Louise, one was never sure. And so she determined to write to him, without delay. In this, though, she was piqued as well by a violent curiosity. Louise said to have given up a good match for his sa e! xxx she could not believe it. It was incredible that she could care for him as he cared for her. Madeleine new them both too well; Maurice was not the type of man by whom Louise was attracted. She wrote in a guarded way. IT SEEMS ABSURD THAT OLD FRIENDS SHOULD BEHAVE AS WE ARE DOING. IF ANYTHING THAT HAPPENED WAS MY FAULT, FORGIVE IT, AND SHOW ME YOU DON'T BEAR ME A GRUDGE, BY COMING TO SEE ME TO-MORROW AFTERNOON. They had not met for close on four months, and, for the first few minutes after his arrival, Madeleine was confused by the change that had ta en place in Maurice. It was not only that he was paler and thinner than of old: his boyish manner had deserted him; and, when he forgot himself, his eyes had a strange, brooding expression. "Other-worldly . . . almost," thought Madeleine; and, in order to surmount an aw wardness she had been resolved not to feel, she tal ed glibly. Maurice said he could not stay long, and wished to eep his hat in his hand; but before he new it, he was sitting in his accustomed place on the sofa. As they stirred their tea, she told him how annoyed she had felt at having recently had a performance postponed in favour of Avery Hill: and how the latter was said to be going crazy, with belief in her own genius. Maurice seemed to be in the dar about what was happening, and made no attempt to hide his ignorance. She could see, too, that he was not interested in these things; he played with a tassel of the sofa, and did not notice when she stopped spea ing. It is his turn now, she said to herself, and left the silence that followed unbro en. Before it had lasted long, however, he loo ed up from his employment of twisting the tassel as far round as it would go, and then letting it fly bac . "I say, Madeleine, now I'm here,















there's something I should li e to as you. I hope, though, you won't thin it impertinence on my part." He cleared his throat. "Once or twice lately I've heard a report about you--several times, indeed. I didn't pay any attention to it--not till a few days bac , that is--when I saw it--or thought I saw it--confirmed with my own eyes. I was at Bonorand's on Monday evening; I was behind you." In an instant Madeleine had grasped what he was driving at. "Well, and what of that, pray?" she as ed. "Do you thin I should have been there, if I had been ashamed of it?" "I saw whom you were with," he went on, and treated the tassel so roughly that it came away in his hand. "I say, Madeleine, it can't be true, what they say--that you are thin ing of . . . of marrying that old German?" Madeleine coloured, but continued to meet his eyes. "And why not?" she as ed again.--"Don't destroy my furniture, please." "Why not?" he echoed, and laid the tassel on the table. "Well, if you can as that, I should say you don't now the facts of the case. If I had a sister, Madeleine, I shouldn't care to see her going about with that man. He's an old ?? ??--don't you now he has had two wives, and is divorced from both?" "Fiddle-dee-dee! You and your sister! Do you thin a man is going to come to nearly fifty without nowing something of life? That he hasn't been happy in his matrimonial relations is his misfortune, not his fault." "Then it's true?" "Why not?" she as ed for the third time. "Then, of course, I've nothing more to say. I've no right to interfere in your private affairs. I hoped I should still be in time--that's all." "No, you can't go yet, sit still," she said peremptorily. "I too, have something to say.--But will you first tell me, please, what it can possibly matter to you, whether you are in time, as you call it, or not?" "Why, of course, it matters.--We haven't seen much of each other lately; but you were my first friend here, and I don't forget it. Particularly in a case li e this, where everything is against the idea of you marrying this man: your age--your character--all common sense." "Those are only words, Maurice. With regard to my age, I am over twenty-seven, as you now. I need no boy of eighteen for a husband. Then I am plain: I shall never attract anyone by my personal appearance, nor will a man ever be led to do foolish things for my sa e. I have wor ed hard all my life, and have never nown what it is to let to-morrow ta e care of itself.--Now here, at last, comes a man of an age not wholly unsuitable to mine, whatever you may say. What though he has enjoyed life? He offers me, not only a certain social standing, but material comfort for the rest of my days. Whereas, otherwise, I may slave on to the end, and die eventually in a governesses' home."


















"YOU would never do that. You are not one of that ind. But do you thin , for a moment, you'd be happy in such a position of dependence?" "That's my own affair. There would certainly be nothing extraordinary in it, if I were." "As you put it, perhaps not. But------If it were even some one of your own race! But these foreigners thin so queerly. And then, too, Madeleine, you'll laugh, I daresay, but I've always thought of you as different from other women--strong and independent, and quite sure of yourself. The ind of girl that ma es others seem little and stupid. No one here was good enough for you." Madeleine's amazement was so great that she did not reply immediately. Then she laughed. "You have far too high an opinion of me. Do you really thin I li e standing alone? That I do it by preference?--You were never more mista en, if you do. It has always been a case of necessity with me, no one ever having as ed me to try the other way. I suppose li e you, they thought I enjoyed it. However, set your mind at rest. Your ind intervention has not come too late. There is still nothing definite." "I'm glad to hear it." "I don't say there mayn't be," she added. "Herr Lohse and I are excellent friends, and it won't occur to me not to accept the theatre-tic ets and other amusements he is able to give me.--But it is also possible that for the sa e of 'your ideals, I may die a solitary old maid." Here she was overcome by the comical side of the matter, and burst out laughing. "What a ridiculous boy you are! If you only new how you have turned the tables on me. I sent for you, this afternoon, to give you a sound tal ing-to, and instead of that, here you sit and lecture me." "Well, if I have achieved something----" "It's too absurd," she repeated more tartly. "For you to come here in this way to care for my character, when you yourself are the tal of the place." His face changed, as she had meant it to do. He cho ed bac a sharp rejoinder. "I'd be obliged, if you'd leave my affairs out of the question." "I daresay you would. But that's just what I don't intend to do. For if there are rumours going the round about me, what on earth is one to say of you? I needn't go into details. You now quite well what I mean. Let me tell you that your name is in everybody's mouth, and that you are being made to appear not only contemptible, but ridiculous." "The place is a hot-bed of scandal. I've told you that before," he cried, angry enough now. "These dirty-minded MUSIKER thin it outside the bounds of possibility for two people to be friends." But his tone was unsure, and he was conscious of it. "Yes--when one of the two is Louise."




















"Kindly leave Miss Dufrayer out of the question." "Oh, Maurice, don't Miss Dufrayer me!--I new Louise before you even new that she existed.--But answer me one question, and I'm done. Are you engaged to Louise?" "Most certainly not." "Well, then, you ought to be.--For though you don't care what people say about yourself, your conscience will surely pric you when you hear that you're destroying the last shred of reputation Louise had left.--I should be sorry to repeat to you what is being said of her." But after he had gone, she reproached herself for having put such a question to him. At the pass things had reached, it was surely best for him to go through with his infatuation, and get over it. Whereas she, in a spasm of conventionality, had pointed him out the sure road to perdition; for the worst thing that could happen would be for him to bind himself to Louise, in any fashion. As if her reputation mattered! The more rapidly she got rid of what remained to her, the better it would be for every one, and particularly for Maurice Guest. Had Maurice been in doubt as to Madeleine's meaning, it would have been removed within a few minutes of his leaving the house. As he turned a corner of the Gewandhaus, he came face to face with Krafft. Though they had not met for wee s, Heinrich passed with no greeting but a disagreeable smile. Maurice was not half-way across the road, however, when Krafft came running bac , and, ta ing the lappel of his friend's coat, allowed his wit to play round the talent Maurice displayed for wearing dead men's shoes. CARMEN was given that night in the theatre; Maurice had fetched tic ets from the box-office in the morning. An ardent li ing for the theatre had sprung up in Louise of late; and they were there sometimes two or three evenings in succession. Besides this, CARMEN was her favourite opera, which she never missed. They heard it from the second-top gallery. Leaning bac in his corner, Maurice could see little of the stage; but the bossy waves of his companion's head were sharply outlined for him against the opposite tier. Louise was engrossed in what was happening on the stage; her eyes were wide open, immovable. He had never nown anyone surrender himself so utterly to the mimic life of the theatre. Under the influence of music or acting that gripped her, Louise lost all remembrance of her surroundings: she lived blindly into this unreal world, without the least attempt at criticism. Afterwards, she returned to herself tired and dispirited, and with a mar ed distaste for the dullness of real life. Here, since the first lively clash of the orchestra, since the curtain rose on gay Sevilla, she had been as far away from him as if she were on another planet. Not, he was obliged to confess to himself, that it made very much difference. Though he was now her constant companion, though his love for her was stronger than it had ever been, he new less of her to-day than he had nown six months ago, when one all-pervading emotion had made her life an open boo . Since that unhappy afternoon on which he learnt the contents of the letter from Dresden, they had spent a part of nearly every day in each other's company. Louise had borne him no malice for what he had said to her; indeed, with the generous forgetfulness of offence, which was one of the most astonishing traits in her character, she met him, the















day after, as though nothing had passed between them. By common consent, they never referred to the matter again; Maurice did not now to this day, whether or how she had answered the letter. For, although she had forgiven him, she was not quite the same with him as before; a faint change had come over their relation to each other. It was something so elusive that he could not have defined it; yet nevertheless it existed, and he was often acutely conscious of it. It was not that she ept her thoughts to herself; but she did not say ALL she thought--that was it. And this shade of reserve, in her who had been so fran , ate into him sorely. He accepted it, though, as a chastisement, for he had been in a very contrite frame of mind on awa ening to the nowledge that he had all but lost her. And so the days had slipped away. An outsider had first to open his eyes to the fact that it was impossible for things to go on any longer as they were doing; that, for her sa e, he must ma e an end, and quic ly. And yet it had been so easy to drift, so hard to do otherwise, when Louise accepted all he did for her as a matter of course, in that high-handed way of hers which too no account of details. He felt sorry for her, too, for she was not happy. There was a gnawing discontent in her just now, and for this, in great measure, he held himself responsible: for a few wee s she had been buoyed up by the hope of a new life, and he had been the main agent in destroying this hope. In return, he had had nothing to offer her--nothing but a rigid living up to certain uncomfortable ideals, which brought neither change nor pleasure with them: and, despite his belief in the innate nobility of her nature, he could not but recognise that ideals were for her something colder and sterner than for other people. She made countless demands on his indulgence, and he learnt to see, only too clearly, what a dependent creature she was. It was more than a boon, it was a necessity to her, to have some one at her side who would care for her comfort and well-being. He could not picture her alone; for no one had less talent than she for the trifles that compose life. Her thoughts seemed always to be set on something larger, vaguer, beyond. He devoted as much time to her as he could spare from his wor , and strove to meet her half-way in all she as ed. But it was no slight matter; for her changes of mood had never been so abrupt as they were now. He did not now how to treat her. Sometimes, she was cold and unapproachable, so wrapped up in herself that he could not get near her; and perhaps only an hour later, her lips would curve upwards in the smile which made her loo absurdly young, and her eyes, too, have all the questioning wonder of a child's. Or she would be silent with him, not un indly, but silent as a sphinx; and, on the same day, a fit of loquacity would seize her, when she was unable to spea quic ly enough for the words that bubbled to her lips. He managed to please her seldomer than ever. But however she behaved, he never faltered. The right to be beside her was now his; and the times she was the hardest on him were the times he loved her best. As spring, having reached and passed perfection, slipped over into summer, she was invaded by a restlessness that nothing could quell. It got into her hands and her voice, into all her movements, and wor ed upon her li e a fever-li e a crying need. So intense did it become that it communicated itself to him also. He, too, began to feel that rest and stillness were impossible for them both, and to be avoided at any cost.



















and the shouting of the toreadors. and hot. She had ta en no notice of him as he passed. but for a tric of fate. and daily he became more convinced that he was chasing a shadow. the brief winter passed almost without transi tion into the scathing summer. he found himself retreating into his shell. but threw a searching loo at Louise. of how. earthy odours. and. or one of the new strange scents. it had seemed to him that just on this afternoon. And. he was as irresponsive as she herself . he was none the less uneasy under it: just as her feverish unburdening of herself after hours of silence. But. He gripped the rail with both hands. and where Louise had closed her eyes. li e a primeval hap pening. Louise--love you. let herself go in its exuberance. A remembrance of this parched heat was in her veins. . He was torn by doubts. a little further along the bridge. but when he paused. the words that had to be said had risen to his lips. ma ing it tremble with his steps--a jaunty cavalry officer. But not one drop of her nervous exaltation was meant for him: she had never shown. as if to watch something that was floating in the water. of dust. in excuse of some irrational impulse that had driven her out of the house. ma ing her eager not to miss any of the young. she might listen to what he had to say with a merciful attentiveness. but amid the buzz and hum of the music. and her face was gentle. bridge. and then she loo ed at him--with a preoccupied air. in reality to loo covertly bac at her. in her native land. Her own face hardened. brown barrenness. though he thus grasped something of what was going on in her. she with one ungloved hand on the railing. and for several seconds on end. but none the less steadily. "I love you. that she cared a jot for him. of grass burnt to cinders. But. He wal ed past them. eager to let the magic of this awa ening permeate her and amaze her. Loo ing at her. They had paused on the suspension. she was quiet." Louise said to him. to watch the moving water. teeming beauty around her. But they had never crossed them--in spite of the wanton greenness of the woods. They were on their way home from the NONNE. she raised her head. where the delicate undergrowth of the high old trees was most prodigal. that he was nothing to her but the STAFFAGE in the picture of her life. And the quic picture she drew. and mortally afraid of the one little word that would put an end to them. in a dar . how often he could not count. sandy winds: all this helped him to understand something of what she was feeling. The words died on Maurice's lips: and going home. it was true. drought. for the first time during the evening. she over-enjoyed it. practising self-control for two. by the least sign. stood still. when she lost hold of her nerves. His eyes were fixed on her. she turned her head. and stood. Strangely enough. and and dryness. He recollected one occasion when he had nearly succeeded in telling her. and when. and drun in the rich. at this moment. with a trim moustache and bright dancing eyes. and still she would not have heard them. before he could open his lips. he might have called the words aloud. however." He said it now."I have never really seen spring. her suggestion of unchanging leaves. sitting bac in his dar corner in the theatre. as usual. which should have been the very frame in which to tell a woman you loved her. a third person turned from the wood-path on to the bridge. so now her attitude towards this mere change of nature disquieted him. exorbitant gaze. he would have done so. .                                   . Often. one day.

he scanned his companion's face with anxiety. and laid the opera-glass en the ledge in front of her. Slowly the traitorous blood subsided."The opera-glass!" Maurice opened the jeather case. Her eyes were heavy. "It was too hot for you up there. sparing himself nothing. He withdrew it as though her touch had burnt him. to discover her mood. and hers groped for a moment round his hand. and the clear-cut line of her chin. and. To the reverberating music. Their fingers met. At that time he had nown her but slightly. of pity for what she had undergone--would stand against the onset of this morbid. which might signify either yes or no. and her gaudy fate. He turned and loo ed at her. he had wal ed at her side: it had been just such a warm. Louise?" he as ed. I shall ta e you a scat downstairs--as I've always wanted to. and then. the opera was over. to-night. for that very reason. lilac-scented night as this. When. Louise flashed a glance at him. They hardly exchanged a word during the remainder of the evening. But in the long interval after the second act. Maurice had a moment of preternatural clearness. perhaps. he did not for a moment delude himself. overmastering desire? To the gay. a year ago. as now. Who could say how long the wall he had built up round her--of the nowledge he shared with her. where every man they met seemed to notice Louise with a start of attention: here Maurice was irrevocably convinced that it would be madness to resign his hard-won post without a struggle. She made a vague gesture. if it could not be managed otherwise. without ma ing use of it. Louise watched the slow fall of the iron curtain. More wholly for her sa e than Madeleine had dreamed of: unless he wanted to be led into some preposterous folly that would embitter the rest of his life. "Are you tired. where it was still half daylight. Her preoccupation continued as they crossed the square. "Next time. and left him sitting alone with his fate. Her face was averted: he could only see the side of her chee . which held all ears. drove past him li e the phantasmagoria of a sleepless night. he had braced himself up to spea . he had been bolder in ta ing the plunge. feelingless music. however it happened. With her hand on the wire ledge. Carmen. when. He realised that only one course was open to him. he must go. His mouth was dry. where the lights of cafes and street-lamps were only beginning here and there to dart into existence. and gave her the glass. when they were downstairs on the LOGGIA." As she                             . her movements were listless." he went on. he thought out his departure in detail. For that it would long remain empty. her name sounded li e a term of endearment. Maurice's thoughts went bac to a similar night. for the first time. BEI NACHT UND NEBEL. she still lived in what she had seen. and they stood waiting for the crowd to thin. but. in the protective tenderness of his tone. and that was to go away.

I meant it . .--Louise . Maurice?" "For several reasons. . he added. said is not true. But if we." "Why. . "You are going away?" She said each word distinctly. "Must?" she repeated. you're very good. I must go.--For your sa e. and not as he had intended. People have been tal ing. I mean it." "I can't hear you spo en of in that way. "No man can want to injure the woman he respects--as I respect you.still did not respond. you must see that things can't go on li e this any longer?" His voice begged her for once to loo at the matter as he did." "Ah!--that ma es it clearer. in a changed voice: "Altogether. indeed?" She laughed. I've had enough." "Indeed? Then why choose just to-night to tell me?--you've had plenty of other chances. But she heard only the imperative. . it will be better for you to get accustomed to going alone to the theatre. "You refuse? After doing all you can to ma e yourself indispensable." She quic ened her steps. "I don't see--not at all."     "Oh." She turned at this. and the music." "I refuse to be the cause of it. It's not a new decision. I must go. have they? Well. "Yes. you now say: get on as best you can alone. ourselves. But I've put it off too long as it is. clumsily. I ought to have told you before. And to-night I had enjoyed the theatre. though. with an indolent curiosity. for the best. but it was made. as if she doubted her ears. and he saw that she was nervously wor ed up. because it will soon be necessary. what can it matter?" now that what's being                     ." "I'm sorry." "Do you. "Why?" "Because--why. I've been thin ing about it for some time." "I give you my word. I'm going away. I have only thought of you. . let them tal .--Don't say it's on my account--that the thought of yourself is not at the bottom of it--for I wouldn't believe you though you did." "Yes. . and he would stand fast." He had made a beginning now. and coming out into the air .

disappeared in the doorway. for the first and the last time in his life. Louise herself had proposed it. an hour afterwards. half a minute. he found her stretched on the sofa. as she wal ed inexorable before him. were returning when they started. Maurice and Louise had rowed to Connewitz. will have acted properly. and the occupants leaned out on their window-cushions. and the walls of the buildings radiated the heat they had absorbed. they had the river to themselves. they might have gone down in the mur y water. he would ta e her in his arms. and strea s of treacherous white mist trailed. The big garden-cafes were filled to the last scat. watching the starry strip of s y. Louise !" "Miss you? What does it matter whether I miss you or not? It seems to me that counts least of all. You will have nothing to reproach yourself with. feel her chee on his.Her shoulders rose. On the way to Connewitz. with isses that were at once an initiation and a farewell. tilt the boat. But to-night she had no fancy for the theatre: it was too hot. without loo ing bac at him. I wouldn't be a man for anything on earth! You are all--all ali e. the midges buzzed round people's heads in accompanying clouds. in her own emotional way. She loo ed very slight and young in her white dress. XII. The high old houses in the inner town had all windows set open. "But tell me one thing. but was moody and out of spirits. but so late in the evening that most of the variously shaped boats. with her hands clasped under her nec . the pavements were still warm to the touch. a clumsy movement in the light boat. over the low-lying meadow-land. In the woods. at any rate. however. She pressed on." he begged.--Oh. and she no longer needed to steer. lay over squares and gardens li e a suspended wave. it sought                                                 . . very gently. The sun had gone down in a cloudless s y. "Say it will matter a little to you if I go--that you will miss me--if ever so little . . When he went to her that afternoon. they spo e no more than was necessary.--Or. The solitude was unbro en. He placed cushions for her at the bottom of the boat. You. he would iss her. I hate you and despise you--every one of you!" They were within a few steps of the house. covering her eyes with his hands. and all would be over. then. and no one would ever now how it had happened: a snag caught unawares. A theatre-tic et lay on the table--for she had ta en him at his word. which followed them. It was a hot evening in June: the perfume of the lilac. hold her to him. or wishing him good-night. and there she lay. li e a complement of the river below. between the tops of the trees above. A moment's hesitation. he would gently. with continental nonchalance. now in fullest bloom. li e fixed smo e. and shown him that she could do without him. and. with coloured lanterns at their bows. Coming bac .

who had never cared.to right itself. leisurely stro es. should at length be moved by words of his. When she did rise to her feet. "A heavy dew must be falling. Meanwhile. tripped. In fancy. the night after the theatre. compared with it. roc ed violently. at the same moment. in answer to the impulsive letters he had written off.--He was well aware of it: his lingering on had all the appearance of a wea reluctance to face the inevitable. in the course of the past wee . only to be reorselessly extinguished by daylight. loc ed in each other's arms. in the fact that she. he saw it all. it was so slender a hope as to be a mere distracting flutter at his heart. and overturned: and beneath it. "Louise!" She did not stir. among sedge and rushes. at night. and secured the boat. she tangled her foot in her s irt. Most frequently. Surely she had fallen asleep. to try her." she answered tonelessly. No. He put out his hand. which. she could hardly stand. that she would ma e use of pique to hide her feelings. inarticulate existence--and. once or twice in these days. this feeling became a sudden refulgence. they found a common grave. he believed that the words of contempt Louise had spo en. For he could never ma e mortal understand what he had come through. He could no more put into words the isolated spasms of ecstasy he had experienced--when nothing under the sun seemed impossible--than he could describe the slough of misery and uncertainty. They were still arriving. and particularly was this the case when he had not seen Louise for some time. he could not tell--he new Louise too well to believe. he rowed on. he had been forced to wade through. would have fallen forward. At home. and. on the lid of his piano. Your sleeve is wet. Then. lay the prospectuses of music-schools in other towns. and she was stiff from the cramped position in which she had been lying. Another sharp turn. He said her name aloud." She made a movement to draw her arm away. the tangible facts of life were the shadows of a shadow. For the most part. "Ta e care what you're doing! Do you want to drown yourself?" "I don't now. when they drew up alongside the narrow landing-place. The boat-sheds were in dar ness. he did not now what it was. They had passed the weir and its foaming. on occasion. with long. as he lay staring before him. Whence it sprang. and now glided under the bridges that spanned the narrower windings of the river. Louise did not follow immediately. came straight from her heart. and steadied her by the arm. But nevertheless it was there--a faint. But the last to come had remained unopened.                                         . But there was a something in her manner. . . and the word floated out into the night--became an expression of the night itself. I shouldn't mind. which was strained. I thin . Maurice got out with the chain in his hand. for a moment. but he had also nown the faint stir ring of a new hope. or in a certain way she had avoided loo ing at him. her hair had come down. in a certain way she had loo ed at him. and the outlying streets of the town were on their right. and the lapping of the water round the oars was the only sound to be heard. . if he had not caught her. The wooden bathing-house loo ed awesome enough to harbour mysteries. however. which lighted him through all the dar hours.

and undecided. hopes and despairs. Advancing to the table. as he wal ed before her. and wretched. in such an even tone of voice. raised her white face to his.His own balance had been endangered. and her face wore an expression of almost physical suffering. I have made you unhappy. "Now. things can't go on li e this. and bending forward." "I now it. poor Maurice. and she stood. "I'm sorry. . At its touch. soft and living. then. and her mouth was hard. I can't eep you here against your will. in her room. the lips softened and relaxed." "It has made you angry with me. coldly in spite of herself. pale. she was swept by such a sense of nervous irritation that she hated the sight of him. She loo ed resolutely away from Maurice. The sensation seemed to ta e his strength away: after the long. "You told me you were going away. "I am waiting ." He drew a deep breath. if only you could care a little!" There was silence after these words. "Louise! . held out her hand. he should be able to spea so quietly. it is I who say. "Can you not see how I love you--and how I suffer?" There was another pause of suspense. His haggard eyes hung on her face. both new now that more must follow. . She was very pale. they were ind. Poor boy . expecting to hear. . but when her eyes did chance to rest on him. Directly he had righted himself. "Louise!--can't you forgive me?--for what I said the other night?" "I have nothing to forgive." she said in a low voice. when he had laid the cushions on the sofa. at a pace she could not eep up with. silent evening. and loo ed into her eyes. blac ." She seemed to hesitate. Louise came to an abrupt decision. He raised his head. Upstairs. "You said you must go. when he still stood there. he set her from him. when the lamp was lighted and set on the table. He wal ed her bac . and when the eyes were raised to his again. he saw a change come over it: the enmity that had been in it. why do you not go? Why have you not already gone?" she as ed. without haste. . But it could not be undone: he had had her in his arms. she leaned her hands on it. a few seconds bac . as he watched. and. with one of her fran est gestures. his words seemed li e balls of down that he had tossed into the still air: they san . along the deserted streets." His answer was so hasty that it was all but simultaneous. but he was not aware of this: he was only amazed that." she replied. . . died out. happiness and unhappiness   It was a statement rather than a question. had felt all her weight on him. full of pity. after all." "You are ma ing us both unhappy. her body was doubly warm. doubly real. he forgot everything: plans and resolutions. She lagged behind. lingeringly. but not a silence of conclusion.                                       . and let them descend on her.

But there are so many reasons. just as he was. her eyes still shut. but she was now quite sure of herself: she drew him to the sofa and made him sit down beside her. Wor was out of the question that day. afraid to go out. She loo ed down at herself and saw her hands. and hair. the closed eyes. he went. as it is their special province to do in crises of life. he threw himself on the sofa. temples. I now quite well: it is presumption. she did not spea . AND I WILL WORK MY FINGERS TO THE BONE FOR YOU. when she was alone. whereever his lips chanced to fall--on the warm mouth. I'm sure. and fell into a heavy sleep. unexpected isses. And you. He was gone before she recovered from her surprise. in which he waited with hammering pulses. She sprang up to meet him. with disarming abruptness.no longer existed for him. I KNOW IT IS FOLLY ON MY PART. she remained in the same attitude. and issed her.                             . for fear of missing her reply. The windows of her room were open. letting the sensation subside. She had instinctively stemmed her hands against his shoulders. on the heels of the child. that some swift change in her had made her sympathise and understand. from which he did not wa e till the morning was well advanced. she stood just as he left her. then she passed her hand over her face. COME TO ME THIS EVENING. and posted the letter. but. he new only that she was sorry for him. . then paused. pale face. put a note into his hands. now alight with compassion then. She had been ta en unawares. however. The commiseration of the previous night was still in her face. It was late in the afternoon when the little boy she employed as a messenger. FOR I LOVE YOU. It was all but evening now. with dim eyes. . very. He went out into the summer night. BUT BE MY WIFE." "Yes. The dull fear at his heart became a certainty. She stretched them out before her. You see that yourself." "Oh. for a few seconds. "If I could care! Yes--if I could only care!" At two o'cloc that morning. and with each one that passed. he too one of her hands and laid it on his forehead. The hours dragged themselves by. "That was foolish of him . at the sweet. He paced his narrow room. her heart was beating. He loo ed down. incessantly. he grew more convinced what her answer to his letter would be." she said. Returning to his room. I don't mean that. For a moment or two. foolish Maurice!--it is not possible. and. he too her head between his hands. Then. I HAVE NOTHING TO OFFER YOU. of rough. unable to bear the suspense any longer. LOUISE--NO WOMAN HAS EVER BEEN LOVED AS YOU ARE. Then she said: "Maurice--poor. too. with a sudden sense of emptiness. He loo ed desperately yet stealthily at her. repeatedly. Maurice wrote: FORGIVE ME--I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT I WAS DOING. when he waited as if for a sentence of death.

was to blame. at the characteristic. with her arms along her nees. I. a wild impulse. when I say so? But believe me. in which each word--two or three to a line--seemed to have a life of its own. she added: "You mustn't ma e yourself reproaches. apprising his relatives of his intention: by the time they received the letter. where she was concerned. you will loo bac on your fancy for me as something foolish. There was a heap of ashes in the cold stove by the time he too out. too entire possession of him. . You must forget me. rested his arm on the lid of the piano. He began to ma e final preparations for his departure. All the same. to glance through the letters once again. And when that happens." Maurice laughed. the few odd scraps of writing he had received from Louise. his head on his arm. he untied the string. hesitating what to do with it. I've been trying for wee s now to tell you. Otherwise. and some day you will meet the nice. at the well-conned pages. He intended only to see her once more. he too no one into his confidence. At the sight of the bold. and unreal. and left her. it's not so serious as you thin . You won't be able to understand it then. for not having ta en you at your word. he tried to ta e his dismissal well: he rose. loc ed the letters up again. and you will be grateful to me. As often before. wrung her hand. at least in time. fighting down his unreasoning desire to now what she was doing. he went through the blac est hour of his life. The more he toyed with his inclination to go to her. Finally. to bid her good-bye. His choice had fallen on Stuttgart: it was far distant from Leipzig. and the faint perfume that still clung to the paper: at the sight of these things all--that he had been thin ing and planning since seeing her last. The afternoon before his interview with Schwarz--he had arranged this with himself for the morning. destroying papers and old letters." "It was nothing of the sort. another month. Loo at me. But every day it grew more impossible to be there and not to see her--for four days now he had ept away. and she sat forward. You will get over it. surging up in him. good woman. too. He wrote a letter home.Maurice . familiar writing. he would be well out of temptation's way--the temptation suddenly to return. was effaced from his mind. the more absorbent it became. each of which he new by heart. and straightway it was an                                                     . "I'm sorry. You are young. I love you--have loved you since the first time I saw you. almost masculine signature. . it would be too late for them to interfere. and tell me if what you wrote was not just an attempt to ma e up for what happened last night. but she did not lose her calm manner of spea ing. He rose. who is to be your wife. Maurice. Her eyes were troubled. In the seclusion of his own room. and forget--if not soon. and the summer vacation would have begun. blac . at the master's private house--he sat at his writing-table. and he would have been able to leave without ma ing himself conspicuous." He let go of her hand. too. tied up in a separate pac et. He balanced the bundle in his hand. very sorry--you believe me' don't you." And as he did not reply. and hours of patient and laborious reasoning were by one swift stro e blotted out. He would greatly have li ed to wait until the present term was over.

after a time. for growing so dependent on anyone. only to ma e you happy. "Yes. haven't                                                       . I've learnt just how much I shall miss you. Standing thus. in opposite directions. I suppose. I've never really been your friend--only I couldn't hurt you before. Maurice. I'm confident of it. "I don't as you to love me. "My poor boy. Louise!--thin . For I would ta e. with burning words on his lips. Was what I said then. Maurice. Maurice? Is there no other way?--Oh. such care of you! I want to ma e you happy. have thought of the future?" "I should thin I have. as we were!" He shoo his head. he saw with a flash of insight that.--You want to marry me.--Besides. We must both go. Maurice. before you send me into the outer dar ness. in these last four days. you are good. as long as he lived. in a low voice. "Give me just one straw to cling to! Tell me you won't forget me all at once. If only you could say you li ed me a little.--But what does it mean." "You are not to be unhappy. by telling you. once more." She was silent. I shall soon be gone now. "I've come down from that. just once more--as yourself. that you will miss me and thin of me--if ever so little. I now what it is--that sudden rage that comes over one. too.--Do you suppose it means nothing to me to be so despicably poor as I am? To have absolutely nothing to offer you?" She too his hand. be safe from overthrows of this ind. and I shall never forget it." "You must go away." "You as ed me that the other night. which he could no more control than the flow of his blood." she said. I should ma e you love me." "It sounds so good . I only as you to let yourself be loved--as I could love you. oh. "That's not what I mean. I'm good for nothing. "I shouldn't now where to go. all the rest would come. I've no other wish than to show you what happiness is." But at his own words. You can't stay here by yourself. though he went away as far as steam could carry him. the thought of his coming desolation pierced him anew. he would never. And he did not even stay to excuse himself to himself: he went headlong to her. very good of you." She did not reply at once. why can't we go on being friends. since I have been alone. not answer enough?--And besides.--I'm so sorry for you. It is ma ing me unhappy. I promise you. in these wretched days. And you now it. But the future--tell me. if it's quite impossible. It shall not happen again." she said. And it has worn me out. let us tal sensibly this afternoon. "I've struggled against it so long--you don't now. "Will nothing else do. and he was as helpless before it as the drun ard before his craving to drin . to rush bac . much less." he went on. and let the rest come? That is very. Come. Maurice? You have been here a little over a year now. and loo things straight in the face. .ungovernable longing: it came over him with a dizzy force. It was something elemental. at all costs. and begin afresh. which made him close his eyes. you say. . when he ceased to spea . I would be content with less. no matter what happens afterwards. In time. It's my punishment.

"Afterwards. It doesn't matter--nothing matters now. Louise remained sitting. You now that. but I tell you fran ly. you now what I mean!" Maurice covered his face with his hands. It should never be mentioned between us. but afterwards. brutally fran with you. If I married you. quite clearly that . "And then. and turned away." she said. if either of us should go. that I'm going to be fran . I'm the one. I do nothing. There must be something wrong with me. . no friends--I never even seem to have been able to ma e                                                     . I owe you such a debt of gratitude." "You say that--every one says that--beforehand.you?--and still have about a year to stay. I deluded myself long enough. then. and her voice grew thinner." He gleaned a ray of hope from her words. When that's over. don't you? Well. God nows!" She made a despondent gesture. Have you really thought of that. have I? I have always been honest with you. and not only her words. Maurice rose to his feet. sooner or later you would have to ta e me home to your people.--Yet with you I thought it was different. and raised her eyes. Maurice. if you really cared. no. when it came to the point?--No." "But that--that American!--you would have married him?" "That was different. and he loo ed down on her blac head." she answered. I couldn't face life in an English provincial town." She shoo her head. and how you would feel about it." "Louise. You don't realise it yet. and went on. "Well. "Why is it--what is the matter with me?--that I must upset your life li e this? I can't bear to see you so unhappy. His forlorn face moved her. . I swear I would. I would ma e it possible. With a jer . I have no ties. I've told you often that I shall never really care for anyone again. you will go bac to England. there's another thing. "It's the nowing that tells. You will settle in some small place. seemed to set her down miles away from him. you are my ind friend. or the best part of your life. I thin . I'm not brave enough for that. that I belonged to him altogether--entirely--that I . Oh. isn't it possible? Say it is! Show me just one little spar of good in myself!" "I'm not different from other men. The busy little cloc on the writing-table tic ed away a few seconds. You wouldn't say such things.--And yet I haven't done anything. His gaze was so insistent that she felt it. that no one can ever be satisfied to be just my friend. there--oh. Louise. I want to tell you. you would thin differently. it would come home to you. Maurice." In her heart she new that he was right. "We could live here--anywhere you li ed. it would be different. Maurice. but also her way of saying them. You have your wor . then--you would be only too glad not to say them. and did not contradict him. too--I want you to understand quite. with the same reasonable sweetness. on a lonely pinnacle of experience. and spend your life. . . I've never made myself out to be better than I am. it's impossible for me to marry you.--Listen! You have always been ind to me. "The past is the past. I thought things could go on as they were. You would have that still to learn.

once established there. so real that it seemed always to have been present to her. with copper edges. and gazed fixedly at the stretch of red and gold. li e the afterglow of a fire. he told her. as a remedy for the long evening that yawned before her: then dismissed the idea from her mind. To thin that this had not occurred to her before!--that. She did not now what to do with herself: she would have li ed to go out and wal . a decision had been arrived at. she was a miracle wrought by the sunset. he too her hand. it was so faint that she hardly grasped it. with her face pressed to her arm. with the sight before her. a small. against the refulgence of the s y. the foliage of the trees in the opposite gardens was blac . It was his turn now to play the comforter. tired though she was. and it is all so hard." As soon as she was quieter. She thought of music. Drawing a." she sobbed. She leaned her hands on the sill. the idea had never once suggested itself! There was no need of loneliness and suffering                                           . stared before her with vacant eyes. He would never consent to stay on alone. would ma e her want to scream. jarring light of the summer streets frightened her. But not for long. when a strange thing happened to her. and though her head ached from crying. I shall never now what it is to be happy myself. she WAS the sunset--in one of those vacancies of mind. still thought glided in. For an hour or more Louise lay huddled up on the sofa.--If I only new where to go! I am so alone. She rose to her feet and moved about. which. or to ma e anyone else happy--never!" and she burst into tears. and. Her eyes were filled with it. by loo ing. it blotted out trees and sunset. it was the wor of some force outside herself. Without conscious effort on her part. on one point. this night. she pushed bac her heavy hair. but. of the theatre. which started into activity because the rest of it was so passive. And. He could bear anything. Good God! it was so simple. he left her. but not by her. which all intense gazers now. and pressed her hands to her blinded eyes. it became so vivid that. At first. that the fact of being forced to sit still between two other human beings. you would forget me. How long she had remained thus she could not have told. The sun was getting low. you could stay quietly on. and said all he could thin of to console her. As she stood there. there was still a deep residue of excitement in her. All would yet turn out to be for the best. but the dusty. The level beams of the sun were pouring blindly into the room. flamed behind the trees. "I've nothing to loo forward to. and too possession of her mind. nothing of her existed but her two widely opened eyes. with one sweep. she was to set her mind at rest: her going away would not benefit him in the least. She was in such a condition of restlessness. but to see her unhappy. nothing. throughout the troubled afternoon. the solution to her difficulties had been found. She did not thin or feel: she became one.acquaintances. When she sat up again. From some sub-conscious layer of her brain. And if I went. the air was dense and oppressive. clasping her hands loosely round her nees. "There's nothing I care to live for. chair up before her. She turned from the window. In time. where they had been so much together.

After all. during the bygone months. big words. had suffered. Then she addressed the envelope. before writing them. and at once fell asleep. In this case. to resolve was to act. and. she decided to go to the theatre. she was ill at ease under enforced procrastination. too. she found it difficult to ma e up her mind whether she admired Maurice or the reverse. which was partly fear and partly attraction. Afterwards. his patience and indness had made her deeply grateful to him. yes. she could detect in herself. she wal ed home through the lilachaunted night. nor his voice. nor his eyes. I HAVE FOUND A WAY. however. doubtful as it were of this peaceful ending. and.--Who was she to stic at it? But she remained dazed. Neither his hands. she could not have lived on coolly at his side--and. MAURICE. too. there lur ed the seductive thought of a long. when he might have been with her in less than one: for. COME BACK TO-MORROW EVENING. had she really cared for him. there was a faint twittering of birds. with an emotion at its close to which she could loo forward. she let the showy music play round her. that her own hands and eyes would have met his half-way. In the meantime. her striving and see ing. where she arrived in time to hear the last two acts of AIDA. she understood certain things as never before. It was very still. sat with her chin in her hand. But that was all.                           . that the old familiar craving. summer day. Then. From a seat in the PARQUET. her hand still covered her eyes.for either of them. in her mind. they both might stay. but the noises of the street had not yet begun. Had there been a breath of this. Next morning. she. she had voluntarily postponed Maurice's return for twenty-four hours. Hot and eager as she was. And yet. would have been impossible. would have made her callous to his welfare. for having been able to carry his part through. at this moment. and had often to fight against a burning impatience. went to bed. and stamped it: it would be soon enough if he got it through the post. and scrawled a few. She li ed him. She lay in the subdued yellow light of her room. with one arm across her eyes. she was puzzled how to fill up the evening. had had the power to touch her--SO to touch her. had always li ed him. in addition. her growing friendship with Maurice--in a different light. she was able to answer one of the questions that had puzzled her the night before. nor anything he did. and ward off the change she so dreaded. He might stay. when circumstances delayed the immediate carrying out of her will. she could ma e him happy. She saw that the relations in which they had stood to each other. and deliberately considered. during these wee s of morbid tension. Fresh from sleep. She saw all that had happened of late--her slow recovery. she went to the writing-table. close to the orchestra. things would have come to a climax long ago. But. with one of the swift movements by which it was her custom to turn thought into action. though no particle of personal feeling drew her to him. On this morning. with her. in her own way. She hesitated only over the last two words. she wa ened early--that was the sole to en of disturbance. the following morning. when he had been incapable either of advancing or retreating.

She stretched her arm straight above her head. his holding bac . for she could never find herself to rights. which had him as its object. in half circumstances: if she were not to grow bewildered. The thought that she might possibly have scruples on his part to combat. she would have been forced to. unmista able words. manly tenderness that shields and protects. she had to see her road simple and straight before her. For the first time. As if the mere contemplation of such a change brought her nearer to him." he said. Maurice was aware of the change in her. Louise? Tell me--quic ly. where the chief end aimed at was the retention of a friend--here. unexpected and unsought! She could lie still no longer. and she saw him differently. she was again the giver and the bestower. she told herself that perhaps just in this gentler. in clear. with an alacrity that had been wanting in her movements of late. Oh. His words to her after they had been on the river together--more. she believed that. which was half a hope and half a belief was present to her mind. No. lest anything he said should dissipate her hope. She almost feared the moment when she would see him again. and where there was no chance of the blind desire to ill self arising. But in this case. much to gain. it meant nothing at all. which only sought her welfare. And after all. I've been all day in suspense. this impression. You ta e one's breath away. her eyes followed him searchingly. If he had not done it. even before he saw her eyes. "What is it. Remember. it meant so little! The first time. she was stirred by a new sensation. "You got my note then?" "What is it?--what did you mean?" "Just a little patience. She made him sit down beside her. for long. His own were one devouring question. perhaps. I sent for you because--oh. What people would thin and say was a matter of indifference to her: besides. what if after all her passionate craving for happiness. since she held a heart and a heart's happiness in the hollow of her hand.                           . She would li e him none the less for these scruples. it was here at her feet. perhaps. With an instinct that was now morbidly sharpened. his bold yet timid isses--had given her bac strength and assurance. She was no longer the miserable instrument on which he tried his changes of mood. where others would have been so ready to pounce in. it might be. she considered him in the light of a lover.How great the strain had been. ma ing everything she did seem strangely festive. She strained to read the future. or if one cared too much. they practically believed the worst of her already. and the fine. did they exist: now. having come to her as good things often do. crossed her mind. Maurice. When he came. but watchful sympathy. indlier love. which had been her previous undoing. true happiness lay. You want to now everything at once. she had nothing to lose and. at heart. as seconds passed and she did not spea . then laid it across her eyes again. where she had herself well in hand. And throughout the long day. she recognised only in the instant when he had spanned the breach. she sprang up. And under the influence of this feeling. she had really appreciated his reserve. There would be storms neither of joy nor of pain.

because . . . I want you to let us go on being friends." "Is that all?" he cried, and his face fell. "When I have told you again and again that's just what I can't do?" She smiled. "I wish I had nown you as a boy, Maurice--oh, but as quite a young boy!" she said in such a changed voice that he glanced up in surprise. Whether it was the loo she bent on him, or her voice, or her words, he did not now; but something emboldened him to do what he had often done in fancy: he slid to his nees before her, and laid his head on her lap. She began to smooth bac his hair, and each time her hand came forward, she let it rest for a moment.--She wondered how he would loo when he new. "You can't care for me, I now. But I would give my life to ma e you happy." "Why do you love me?" She experienced a new pleasure in postponing his nowing, postponing it indefinitely.

"How can I say? All I now is how I love you--and how I have suffered." "My poor Maurice," she said, in the same caressing way. "Yes, I shall always call you poor.--For the love I could give you would be worthless compared with yours."

He too enough of her dress to bury his face in. She sat bac , and loo ed over him into the growing dus of the room: and, in the alabaster of her face, nothing seemed to live except her blac eyes, with the half-rings of shadow. Suddenly, with the unexpectedness that mar ed her movements when she was very intent, she leant forward again, and, with her elbow on her nee, her chin on her hand, said in a low voice: "Is it for ever?" "For ever and ever." "Say it's for ever." She still loo ed past him, but her lips had parted, and her face wore the expression of a child's listening to fairy-tales. At her own words, a vista seemed to open up before her, and, at the other end, in blue haze, shone the great good that had hitherto eluded her. "I shall always love you," said the young man. "Nothing can ma e any difference." "For ever," she repeated. "They are pretty words." Then her expression changed; she too his head between her hands. "Maurice . . . I'm older than you, and I now better than you, what all this means. Believe me, I'm not worth your love. I'm only the shadow of my old self. And you are still so young and so . . . so untried. There's still time to turn bac , and be wise." He raised his head.





"To me it would be everything.--If you only you, and how I have struggled!"

new how I have longed for

















"What do you mean? Why are you saying these things? I shall always love you. Life itself is nothing to me, without you. I want you . . . only you." He put his arms round her, and tried to draw her to him. But she held bac . At the expression of her face, he had a moment of acute uncertainty, and would have loosened his hold. But now it was she who notted her hands round his nec , and gave him a long, penetrating loo . He was bewildered; he did not understand what it meant; but it was something so strange that, again, he had the impulse to let her go. She bent her head, and laid her face against his; chee rested on chee . He too her face between his hands, and stared into her eyes, as if to tear from them what was passing in her brain. Over both, in the same breath, swept the warm, irresistible wave of self-surrender. He caught her to him, roughly and aw wardly, in a desperate embrace, which the indly dus veiled and redeemed.


"Now you will not leave me, Maurice?" "Never . . . while I live." "And you . . ." "No. Don't as me yet. I can't tell you." "Maurice!" "Forgive me! Not yet. That after all you should care a little! After all . . . that you should care so much!" "And it is for ever?" "For ever and ever . . . what do you ta e me for? But not here! Let us go away--to some new place. We will ma e it our very own." Their words came in haste, yet haltingly; were all but inaudible whispers; went flying bac and forwards, li e brief cries for aid, implying a peculiar sense of aloofness, of being cut adrift and thrown on each other's mercy. Louise raised her head. "Yes, we will go away. But now, Maurice--at once!" "Yes. To-night . . . to-morrow . . . when you li e." The next morning, he set out to find a place. Three wee s of the term had still to run, and he was to have played in an ABENDUNTERHALTUNG, before the vacation. But, compared with the emotional upheaval he had undergone, this long-anticipated event was of small consequence. To Schwarz, he alleged a succession of nervous headaches, which interfered with his wor . His loo s lent colour to the statement; and



















though, as a rule, highly irritated by opposition to his plans, Schwarz only grumbled in moderation. He would have let no one else off so easily, and, at another time, the nowledge of this would have ran led in Maurice, as affording a fresh proof of the master's indifference towards him. As it was, he was than ful for the freedom it secured him. On the strength of a chance remar of Madeleine's, which he had remembered, he found what he loo ed for, without difficulty. It could not have been better: a rambling inn, with restaurant, set in a clearing on the top of a wooded hill, with an open view over the undulating plains. That night, he wrote to Louise from the Rochlitzer Berg, painting the nest he had found for them in glowing colours, and begging her to come without delay. But the whole of the next day passed without a word from her, and the next again, and not till the morning of the third, did he receive a note, announcing her arrival for shortly after midday. He too it with him to the woods, and lay at full length on the moss. Although he had been alone now for more than forty-eight hours--a July quiet reigned over the place--he had not managed to thin connectedly. He was still dazed, disbelieving of what had happened. Again and again he told himself that his dreams and hopes--which he had always pushed forward into a vague and far-off future--had actually come to pass. She was his, all his; she had given herself ungrudgingly: as soon as he could ma e it possible, she would be his wife. But, in the meantime, this was all he new: his nearer vision was obstructed by the stupefying thought of the wee s to come. She was to be there, beside him, day after day, in a golden paradise of love. He could only thin of it with moist eyes; and he swore to himself that he would repay her by being more infinitely careful of her than ever man before of the woman he loved. But though he repeated this to himself, and believed it, his feelings had unwittingly changed their pole. On his nees before her, he had vowed that her happiness was the end of all his pleading; now it was fran ly happiness he sought, the happiness of them both, but, first and foremost, happiness. And it could hardly have been otherwise: the one unpremeditated mingling of their lives had illed thought; he could only feel now, and, throughout these days, he was conscious of each movement he made, as of a song sung aloud. He wandered up and down the wooded paths, blind to everything but the image of her face, which was always with him, and oftenest as it had bent over him that last evening, with the strange new fire in its eyes. Closing his own, he felt again her arms on his shoulders, her lips meeting his, and, at such moments, it could happen that he threw his arms round a tree, in an ungovernable rush of longing. Beyond the moment when he should clasp her to him again, he could not see: the future was as indistinct as were the Saxon plains, in the haze of morning or evening. He set out to meet her far too early in the day, and when he had covered the couple of miles that lay between the inn on the hill and the railway-station at the foot, he was obliged to loiter about the sleepy little town for over an hour. But gradually the time tic ed away; the hands of his watch pointed to a quarter to two, and presently he found himself on the shadeless, sandy station which lay at the end of a long, sandy street, edged with two rows of young and shadeless trees; found himself loo ing along the line of rail that was to bring her to him. Would the signal never go up? He
















began to feel, in spite of the strong July sunlight, that there was something illusive about the whole thing. Or perhaps it was just this harsh, crude light, without relieving shadows, which made his surroundings seem unreal to him. However it was, the nearer the moment came when he would see her again, the more improbable it seemed that the train, which was even now overdue, should actually be carrying her towards him--her to him! He would yet wa en, with a shoc . But then, coming round a corner in the distance, at the side of a hill, he saw the train. At first it appeared to remain stationary, then it increased in size, approached, made a slight curve, and was a sna y line; it vanished, and reappeared, leaving first a white trail of cloud, then thic rounded puffs of cloud, until it was actually there, a great blac object, with a crea and a rattle. He had planted himself at the extreme end of the platform, and the carriages went past him. He hastened, almost running, along the train. At the opposite end, a door was opened, the porter too out some bags, and Louise stepped down, and turned to loo for him. He was the only person on the station, besides the two officials, and in passing she had caught a glimpse of his face. If he loo s li e that, every one will now, she thought to herself, and her first words, as he came breathlessly up, were: "Maurice, you mustn't loo so glad!" He had never really seen her till now, when, in a white dress, with eyes and lips alight, she stood alone with him on the wayside platform. To curb his first, impetuous gesture, Louise had stretched out both her hands. He stood holding them, unable to ta e his eyes from her face. At her movement to withdraw them, he stooped and issed them. "Not loo glad? Then you shouldn't have come." They left her luggage to be sent up later in the day, and set out on their wal . Going down the shadeless street, and through the town, she was silent. At first, as they went, Maurice pointed out things that he thought would interest her, and spo e as if he attached importance to them. While, in reality, nothing mattered, now that she was beside him. And gradually, he, too, lapsed into silence, wal ing by her side across the square, and through the narrow streets, with the solemnly festive feelings of a child on Sunday. They crossed the moat, passed through the gates and courtyard of the old castle, and began to ascend the steep path that was a short-cut to the woods. It was exposed to the full glare of the sun, and, on reaching the sheltering trees, Louise gave a sigh of relief, and stood still to ta e off her hat. "It's so hot. And I li e best to be bareheaded." "Yes, and now I can see you better. Is it really you, at last? I still can't believe it.--That you should have come to me!" "Yes, I'm real," she smiled, and thrust the pins through the crown of the hat. "But very tired, Maurice. It was so hot, and the train was so slow." "Tired?--of course, you must be. Come, there's a seat just round this corner. You shall rest there." They sat, and he laid his arm along the bac of the bench. With his left hand he turned her face towards him. "I must see you. I expect






















every minute to wa e and find it's not true." "And yet you haven't even told me you're glad to see me." "Glad? No. Glad is only a word." She leaned lightly against the protective pressure of his arm. On one of her hands lying in her lap, a large spot of sunlight settled. He stooped and put his lips to it. She touched his head. "Were the days long without me?" "Why didn't you come sooner?" Not that he cared, or even cared to now, now that she was there. But he wanted to hear her spea , to remember that he could now have her voice in his ears, whenever he chose. But Louise was not disposed to tal ; the few words she said, fell unwillingly from her lips. The stillness of the forest laid its spell upon them: each faint rustling among the leaves was audible; not a living thing stirred except themselves. The tall firs and beeches stretched infinitely upwards, and the patches of light that lay here and there on the moss, made the cool dar ness seem dar er. When they wal ed on again, Maurice put his arm through hers, and, in. this intimacy of touch, was conscious of every step she too . It made him happy to suit his pace to hers, to draw her aside from a spreading root or loose stone, and to feel her respond to his pressure. She wal ed for the most part languidly, loo ing to the ground. But at a thic ly wooded turn of the path, where it was very dar , where the sunlight seemed far away, and the pine-scent was more pungent than elsewhere, she stopped, to drin in the spicy air with open lips and nostrils. "It's li e wine. Maurice, I'm glad we came here--that you found this place. Thin of it, we might still be sitting indoors, with the blinds drawn, nowing that the pavements were ba ing in the sun. While here! . . . Oh, I shall be happy here!" She was roused for a moment to a rapturous content with her surroundings. She loo ed childishly happy and very young. Maurice pressed her arm, without spea ing: he was so foolishly happy that her praise of the place affected him li e praise of himself. Again, he had a chastened feeling of exhilaration: as though an acme of satisfaction had been reached, beyond which it was impossible to go. On catching sight of the rambling wooden building, in the midst of the clearing that had been made among the encroaching trees, Louise gave another cry of pleasure, and before entering the house, went to the edge of the terrace, and loo ed down on the plains. But upstairs, in her room on the first storey, he made her rest in an arm-chair by the window. He himself prepared the tea, proud to perform the first of the trivial services which, from now on, were to be his. There was nothing he would not do for her, and, as a beginning, he persuaded her to lie down on the sofa and try to sleep. Once outside again, he did not now how to ill time; and the remainder of the afternoon seemed interminable. He endeavoured to read, but could not ta e in the meaning of two consecutive sentences. He was afraid to go far away, in case she should wa e and miss him. So

























he loitered about in the vicinity of the house, and returned every few minutes, to see if her blind were not drawn up. Finally, he sat down at one of the tables on the terrace, where he had her window in sight. Towards six o'cloc , his patience was exhausted; going upstairs, he listened outside the door of her room. Not a sound. With infinite precaution, he turned the handle, and loo ed in. She was lying just as he had left her, fast asleep. Her head was a little on one side; her left hand was under her chee , her right lay palm upwards on the rug that covered her. Maurice sat down in the arm-chair. At first, he loo ed furtively, afraid of disturbing her; then more openly, in the hope that she would wa en. Sitting thus, and thin ing over the miracle that had happened to him, he now sought to find something in her face for him alone, which had previously not been there. But his thoughts wandered as he gazed. How he loved it!--this face of hers. He was invariably wor ed on afresh by the blac ness of the lustreless hair; by the pale, imperious mouth; by the dead white pallor of the s in, which shaded to a dus y cream in the curves of nec and throat, and in the lines beneath the eyes was of a bluish brown. Now the lashes lay in these encircling rings. Without doubt, it was the eyes that supplied life to the face: only when they were open, and the lips parted over the strong teeth, was it possible to realise how intense a vitality was latent in her. But his love would wipe out the last trace of this wan tiredness. He would be infinitely careful of her: he would shield her from the impulsiveness of her own nature; she should never have cause to regret what she had done. And the affection that bound them would day by day grow stronger. All his wor , all his thoughts, should belong to her alone; she would be his beloved wife; and through him she would learn what love really was. He rose and stood over her, longing to share his feelings with her. But she remained sun in her placid sleep, and as he stood, he became conscious of a different sensation. He had never seen her face--except convulsed by weeping--when it was not under full control. Was it because he had stared so long at it, or was it really changed in sleep? There was something about it, at this moment, which he could not explain: it almost loo ed less fine. The mouth was not so proudly reticent as he had believed it to be; there was even a want of restraint about it; and the chin had fallen. He did not care to see it li e this: it made him uneasy. He stooped and touched her hand. She started up, and could not remember where she was. She put both hands to her forehead. "Maurice!--what is it? Have I been asleep long?" He held his watch before her eyes. With a cry she sprang to her feet. Then she sent him downstairs. They were the only guests. They had supper alone in a longish room, at a little table spread with a coloured cloth. The window was open behind them, and the branches of the trees outside hung into the room. In honour of the occasion, Maurice ordered wine, and they remained sitting, after they had finished supper, listening to the rustling and swishing of the trees. The only drawbac to the young man's happiness was the pertinacious curiosity of the girl who waited on them. She lingered after she had served them, and stared so hard that Maurice turned at length and as ed her what the matter was. The girl coloured to the roots of her hair.


















"Ach, Fraulein is so pretty," she answered naivly, in her broad Saxon dialect. Both laughed, and Louise as ed her name, and if she always lived there. Thus encouraged, Amalie, a buxom, thic set person, with a number of flaxen plaits, came forward and began to tal . Her eyes were fixed on Louise, and she only occasionally glanced from her to the young man. "It's nice to have a sweetheart," she said suddenly. Louise laughed again and coloured. "Haven't you got one, Amalie?" Amalie shoo her head, and launched out into a tale of faithlessness and desertion. "Yes, if I were as pretty as you, Fraulein, it would be a different thing," she ended, with a hearty sigh. Maurice clattered up from the table. "All right, Amalie, that'll do." They went out of doors, and strolled about in the twilight. He had intended to show her some of the pretty noo s in the neighbourhood of the house. But she was not as affable with him as she had been with Amalie; she wal ed at his side with an air of preoccupied indifference. When they sat down on a seat, on the side of the hill, the moon had risen. It was almost at the full, and a few gently sailing scraps of cloud, which crossed it, made it seem to be coming towards them. The plains beneath were veiled in haze; detached sounds mounted from them: the prolonged bar ing of a dog, the drone of an approaching train. Round about them, the air was heavy with the scent of the sun-warmed pines. Maurice had ta en her hand and sat holding it: it was the one thing that existed for him. All else was vague and unreal: only their two hearts beat in all the universe. But there was no interchange between them of binding words or endearments, such as pass between most lovers. How long they sat, neither could have told. But suddenly, far below, a human voice was raised in a long cry, which echoed against the side of the hill. Louise shivered: and he had a moment of apprehension. "You're cold. We have sat too long. Let us go."

Although the doors were still open, the building was in dar ness, and they had to grope their way up the stairs. Outside her room, he paused to light the candle that was standing on the table, but Louise opened the door and went in. As she did so, she gave a cry. The blind had not been lowered, and a patch of greenish-white moonlight lay on the floor before the window, throwing the rest of the room into massy shadow. She went forward and stood in it. "Don't ma e a light," she said to him over her shoulder. Maurice put down the matches, with which he had been fumbling, went quic ly in after her, and shut the door. Before anyone else was astir, he had flung out into the freshness of



They rose, and wal ed slowly bac

to the house.












the morning. It was cool in the shade of the woods; grass and moss were a little moist with dew. He did not linger under the trees; he needed movement; and striding along the driving-road, which ran down the hill where the incline was easiest, he went out on the plains, among the little villages that dotted the level land li e huge clumps of mushrooms. He carried his cap in his hand, and let the early sun play on his head. When he returned, it was nine o'cloc , and he was ravenously hungry. Amalie carried the coffee and the crisp brown rolls to one of the small tables on the terrace, and herself stood, after she had served him, and loo ed over the edge of the hill. When he had finished eating, he opened a volume of DICHTUNG UND WAHRHEIT, which he carried in his poc et, and began to read. But after a few lines, his thoughts wandered; the boo had a chilling effect on him in his present mood; the writing seemed stiff and strained--the wor of a very old man. At first, that morning, he had not ventured to review even in thought the past hours. Now, however, that he was again within a stone's throw of Louise, memories crowded upon him; he gazed, with a passion of gratefulness, at her window. One detail stood out more vividly than all the rest. It was that of wa ing suddenly at dawn, from a dreamless sleep, and of finding on his pillow, a thic tress of blac ruffled hair. For a moment, he had hardly been able to believe his eyes; and even yet, the mere remembrance of this dus y hair on the pillow's whiteness, seemed to bring what had happened home to him, as nothing else could have done. She had slept on, undisturbed, and she was still asleep, to judge from the lowered blind. But though hours seemed to pass while he sat there, he was not dissatisfied; it was enough to now how near she was to him. When she came, she was upon him before he was aware of it. At the light step behind, he sprang from his seat. "At last!" "Are you tired of waiting for me?" She was in the same white dress, and a soft-brimmed hat fell over her forehead. He did not answer her words; for Amalie followed on her heels with fresh coffee, and made a great business of re-setting the table. "WUNSCHE GUTEN APPETIT!" The girl retired to a distance, but still lingered, eeping them in sight. Maurice leaned across the table. "Tell me how you are. Have you forgotten me?" He tried to ta e her hand. "Ta e care, Maurice. We can be seen here." "How that girl stares! Why doesn't she go away?" "She is envying me my sweetheart again . . . who won't let me eat my brea fast."


"I've been alone for hours, Louise. Tell me what I want to

















screening woods. with fanatic eyes. Maurice! You forget that I've just done my hair.         "To-day I shall forget everything. with a feverish pleasure. Louise chose a carved wooden pen. everything she said in the presence of others would be a cloa for what she really meant to say. a little child of the landlord's came running up to stare shyly. Attracted by the two strangers. Maurice would not have been greatly surprised to hear that the strea y headline of the Dover coast was visible: he had eyes for her alone. as. On this morning. Maurice . from now on. but she was as chary of her words as of her loo s. she would have been content to bas in the sun. and how. yes. and. Maurice believed that he could detect a new note in her voice this morning. "I thought you would never come. The coffee is getting cold. she gave way." and he told himself. He had been right." "To-day you believe I'm real. and she new it. reddened hands. On the ground-floor. its many spires could be distinguished. Let me loo right into your eyes. don't you? Are you satisfied?" "And you. a little more to the right. an imperceptible vibration. that. a sensuous undertone. with assumed interest. . a tiny round of glass was set in the handle. he continued to loo at her. led by a persuasive old pensioner. learned where Leipzig lay. The few ordinary words meant in reality something quite different. gently." at you again ."Yes--afterwards. She was paler than usual. and saw the fine grace of her strong. "Over there. in order that he might hear it. a stone tower. too idly happy to refuse. Louise. and he tried to ma e her spea . but she did not return it. on which the s in was drawn and glazed. which seemed to have been left over from those moments when it had quivered li e a roughly touched string beneath a bow. . climbed the stone steps. He was absurdly jealous. and the lines beneath her eyes were blac er. on the platform at the top. . At a bend in the stair. with something of an owner's pride. and pointed out the distant landmar s. beside a large quarry." He sat bac and watched her movements. and they went out of the sight of other people. into the friendly. She spread a piece of bread with honey. For the rest of the morning. there was a new tone in her voice this morning. be at rest--I am still yours. but when she saw how impatient he was. he heard her dress swish from step to step. Going down the steps behind her. The old man praised his wares with zeal. she paused to pic out a trifle from a table set with mementoes. he held her bac and issed her nec . just where the hair stopped growing. and gave it to the child. standing on the highest point of the hill. She was not confused by the insistence of his gaze." "Why didn't you wa e me? Oh. supple body. li e a coating of gelatine. who. It was as if she had said to him: "Yes. .                                   . adjusted the telescope. ta ing up this and that in his old. too!" They came upon the FRIEDRICH AUGUST TURM. How far away we seem!" Leaning against the parapet. on a clear day. she followed the old man's hand. you?--Say you're happy.

he poured out his heart to her. The receptiveness of her silence spurred him on. and thic ly grown about. or sat with her bac against a tree-trun . for the rest of the day. Maurice was always in front of her. Occasionally. you say. in referring to an earlier time. to sit inactive at his side. li e a plague-spot. his memory had stored up. he could not appraise the extent of his happiness all at once. Hitherto.through which might be seen a view of the tower. so li e was one day to another. His arm lay along the bac of the bench. that she did not share. he had her to himself. and despaired. at something he said. now. up to the very last day. with her arms under her head. there was no hindrance to his telling her everything. what he had first felt dimly. in a dazed way. Each of these first wonderful days was of the same pattern. her appearance at his side in the concert-hall. but it was chiefly the restless misery of the past half year that was his theme--he too the same pleasure in reciting it. And the burden of months fell away from him as he tal ed. Maurice? Perhaps I even loo ed at you. He was happy. but less often. and every now and then his hand sought and pressed the warm. and ventured. pleasant or unpleasant. They sat on a seat that was screened by trees. it came to seem in the order of things that they should rise in the morning to cloudless s ies and golden sunshine. un nown to himself. soft round of her shoulder. The weather was superb. now that it was over. she turned her head with incredulous eyes. Besides that. How strange things are!"                                         . whereas. with an encircling motto. She also made him describe to her more than once how he had first seen her: his indelible impression of her as she played. he was amazed at his own eloquence. all the hopes and feelings that had so long been pent up in him. and how he had been prepared to lose her. Maurice had the feeling that she was content. sometimes. They themselves lost count of time. which. how he had hoped. he soon new for certain: that she was never tired of learning how much he loved her. with loosely clasped hands. but right that he should: henceforth there must be no strangeness between them. so that he could see her face as he tal ed--this face of which he could never see enough. where they were more securely shut off from the world than inside the house. and had vainly tried to learn who she was. the very essence of his love had been taciturn endurance. and yet each that passed was a little eternity in itself. Its chief outward sign was the nervous flood of tal that poured from his lips--as though they had been sealed and stopped for years. and dwelt on details and events long past. how he had followed her out and loo ed for her. even happy. and listen to his story. After this. and on the white stuff of her dress. though she was emotionally so irresponsive. and to them. His impassioned words new no halt. "I stood quite close to you. it was easier. struggled to escape. And he went bac . that the cool green seclusion of the woods should be theirs. Louise lay on the moss. But Louise urged him on. as the convalescent in relating his sufferings. it was not only permissible. and spots of light settled on her bare head. he felt how infinitely much he had to say to her: all that he had undergone since nowing her first. She sat motionless. Now. But. there being nothing to conceal. a certain name had to be shir ed and gone round about. In this attitude. a smile would raise the corners of her mouth. in their egotism. no nowledge.

pin nails. for then they might have spo en openly. The chief step ta en. Louise lay with her elbow on the moss-grown roots of a tree. But. they were in the woods as usual.Still. he grew restless under her protracted silence. he could not find a word. The very expression of her face altered in these days: the somewhat defiant. however. were sweeter. thin ing. her eyes were heavy. he had to har bac to the state she had been in when he first offered her aid and comfort. at moments. he to draw the line beyond which it was better for all their after-lives that they should not go. when she came to thin over what she had done. this of . unthin ing fashion in which she gave herself into his hands. one by one. and. and have helped each other. He affirmed to himself more than once that he loved her the more for her complete subjection: it was in eeping with her openhanded nature which could do nothing by halves. no impulsive resolutions. he was determined not to let himself be carried off his feet. it seemed as if no further initiative were left in her. just as she left all that called for firmness or decision. He had to as no self-assertion of her now. had imagined her the cooler and wiser of the two. But it began to tell on him. or to gather them together. in this new phase of her life. What he had not imagined was the wordless. He did not admit to himself how difficult she made things for him. It was very sultry. ta ing her hand. before long. had imagined even moments of self-reproach. Yet. bitter lines he had so loved in it. and her abandon was absolute--he heard it in the very way she said his name. . not a leaf stirred. from the first. the eyes were more veiled. and more than once made him a little sharp with her. began to pull apart the long fingers with the small. was without will or wish. implying a boundless faith in him. even tremulous. to feel her absence of will as a disquieting factor--to find anything to which he could compare it. had she met him in almost any other way than this--even with a fran return of feeling. And then. but the whole responsibility was his. that she loo ed better already for these days spent out-of-doors--the tiny lines round her eyes were fast disappearing. and let them drop. far less sure of themselves. lay a subtle languor. as time passed. Over all she did. and shut her hand firmly                                                     . for. He had imagined several things as li ely to happen. before her. . he did not himself now of what he was capable. he began to suffer under it. By degrees. the lips seemed to meet differently. Maurice had been conscious of the change in her as of something inexpressibly sweet and tender. "What ARE you thin ing of?" he as ed at last. on her part. she too no part herself in this building up of the past. it made him uneasy. to rouse her as he very well new she could be roused. were smoothed out. waited for everything to come from him. He threw his cigarette away. She left it to him. That was the lassitude of grief. In the first riotous joy of possession. chec ing him and chiding him for his over-devotion. Strengthened. but lifeless things. he had no thoughts but of her. he would be seized by an overpowering temptation to sha e her out of her lassitude. As it was. Maurice. meanwhile. smo ed a cigarette. and behind which she had screened herself. It was he who had to maintain the happy mean in their relations. li e warm. One afternoon. strange desires awo e in him. by his good resolutions. there was something ominous about it. and watched for the least recognition of his presence. the interest she displayed was of a wholly passive ind. But it would have been easier for him to stand firm. she let herself be loved. his watchful tenderness new no bounds.

I can't help thin ing there's some mista e--that after all you don't really care for me. She lay and smiled at him. . "There it is again!" he cried. and you tell me nothing. One morning. he was aware. issed her." he said suddenly. or disturb them. I'm jealous of your thoughts. And it was just this mysterious power in her that his nerves had dreamed of wa ing: yet now. she added: "You thin one must always be thin ing. But now you have come bac to me. what do you mean? It was nothing--only something I was trying to understand. She started. the eyes and the lips. . shut in by high trees. where he stood loo ing down at her. until. putting his arm under her nec .within his. elusive influence began to emanate from her. and sat up. She lay just as he had left her. Louise. so far." "You are curious to-day. and it's all right. You tell me nothing of them. and drag him down. I wasn't thin ing at all." "Nothing? Really nothing?" "Only that I'm glad to be here--that I am happy. some inexplicable instinct made him hesitate. Maurice. He drew his arm from under her head. and seemed to be considering him. Maurice. And then. I couldn't tell you now. I saw it in your face. that. There's so much I want to now. might some day overpower him. "You are loo ing at me just as you did before." "Yes." "But you were. when a soft south breeze was in motion. But her eyes remained shaded: they were meditative. bent her head bac on the moss. he traced them with his finger. a little deliberately." But what it was that she did not understand." "Yes. "Tell me. when one is silent." And a moment later. they had not learned to now even their nearer surroundings." "No. It is so--so critical. no one would find them. and he felt unaccountably impatient. he could not get her to tell him. Your thoughts were miles away. I li e to listen best. They were quite alone. which. thin ing? I don't now. Maurice. It is I who tal and tal --till you must be tired of hearing me. "I? . "why do you loo at me li e that? It's not the first time--I've seen it before.                                                 . Maurice reminded her with an air of playful severity. and forbear. and." Louise passed her hand over her eyes." "I don't now. Her stretched throat was mar ed by two encircling lines. under his touch. that vague. A fortnight passed. And I have nothing to say. "Why." He drew her nearer to him by the hand he held. and rose to his feet." He issed her on the throat.

he nelt before her and too off her boots. which dominated the landscape. After supper. she put on her hat. luscious cherries. and began to climb the hill. and began their wal . and out upon the long. she could with difficulty drag one foot after the other. they sat upstairs by the window in her room. For the sum of ten pfennigs. On returning from these. The apples were still hard. and Maurice began to fear that he would never get her home. slate-grey Mulde. but much less buoyantly--for Louise was growing footsore--paid a bridge-toll. to rest and drin coffee. many-windowed castle of the same stone as the bridge loo ed out over a wall of magnificent chestnuts. ribbon-li e roads that zigzagged the plains. the plains stretched before them. they were pleasantly tired and hungry. were shown through the castle. She hardly touched it: her eyes were closing with fatigue. which he had had in view for them. green. which stained the lips a bluish purple. and she remained in bed                                                       . Somewhat later in the month. to the romantic little town of Wechselburg at its base. and. towards the middle of the afternoon. Afterwards. the fancy too her to go to a place called Ameri a. About two o'cloc . Amalie carried her supper up on a tray. and. throughout the morning. they descended the steep. they would sit down to ma e a second brea fast off blac . and was ready to start. gathering the fruit for mar et. In her room. however. they were bound to no fixed hours. The whole day lay before them. Their original plan of ta ing the train a part of the way was. and a fresh breeze was blowing. connecting the dotted villages. a sombre. Louise was at the end of her strength. the station stood on an eminence. at the picturesque restaurant that bore the name. Louise in the big chair. over the tops of the trees. was a ind of shed. Having passed under a great railway viaduct. found themselves on the little railway-station. wooded bac of the bill. of Ameri a. for it was an uncommonly lovely day. But. having scrambled down to Wechselburg again. polished balls. by the roadside. so that it was nearly ten o'cloc before they entered the house. they struc out on the flat. The restaurant in which they sat. and. by now. as far as they could see. Maurice could get his hat filled. and was always content to bas in the sun and be still. and she was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. but the berries were at their prime. The half-hour's journey over--it was made in a narrow wooden compartment. she tired easily. Next day she did not wa en till nearly noon. crowded with peasants returning from a mar et--they left the train. and had to rest every few minutes. they stopped at a village inn. Here. These roads were edged with fruit-trees--apple and cherry. Maurice at her feet. not one had been underta en. a massive bridge of reddish-yellow stone spanned the winding. they returned to Rochsburg. And everywhere men were aloft on ladders. to gather the wild raspberries that grew by the roadside. His love of movement reasserted itself. Maurice consulted the landlord about the distance. They went down the driving-road. they made frequent halts. waiting for an overdue train. So. roofed by a covering of Virginia creeper. they came to Rochsburg. at sunset. When it grew too hot for the open roads. the evening s y was an unbro en sheet of red and gold. But she did not attempt to oppose his wish. Here they dined. Louise was not fond of wal ing in the country. and there watched the dar ness come down. abandoned when the morning came.while of all the romantic explorings in the pretty Muldental. and various other excursions. and finally arrived.

Over her bent Amalie. The weather was on her nerves. the rain pelted. By its failing light. as it was still dry. When. it was a wild night. and brushed the girl aside. and the thunder crac ed immediately overhead. It had loo ed threatening when he left the house. and before he was three miles out on the plain. as he went. and flung herself upon him. she said--for it had grown very sultry. he saw that she was lying across the bed. He had visions of sudden illness. drenched to the s in. I feel that anything might happen. He had been absent for close on four hours.--But on a night li e this. He swung down the road at a pace he could only ma e when he was alone. it was long before she was in a state to reply to his questionings. Maurice! You will never leave me. In the evening. "What is it? What's the matter?" At his voice. stared at him as though she did not recognise him. and trembled from head to foot. Notwithstanding his dripping clothes. he reached the top of the hill again. Louise lifted a wild face. it was going on for midnight. but she preferred quiet--did not even want to be tal ed to. he ordered her out of the room. He too to his heels. darling? Were you afraid?" But she only clung to him and trembled. and he had been in the house all day. Outside the storm still raged. In vain he implored her to spea . "Leave you! What has put such foolish thoughts into your head?" "I don't now. The candle in her room was guttering in its soc et. some quarter of a mile in front of him. the storm bro e. he was forced to support Louise. then rose with a cry. The landlord prophesied a thunderstorm. with a sudden fury from which there was no escape. however.     "What was it? Were you afraid? Did you thin I was lost?"                                 . she sat in the armchair." "And did it really matter so much whether I came bac or not?" He felt her arms tighten round him. and the s y was overcast. will you?" She wounded her lips against his shoulder. still dressed. Maurice went out for a solitary wal . and ran to the next village. but. "Ta e care! I'm wet through. "I don't now--Oh. Maurice wished to read to her. Amalie was weeping with equal vehemence. There. in the smo y room of a tiny inn. "What is it." For all answer. For the rest of the day. together with a handful of country-people. the clouds piled themselves up with inconceivable rapidity. she burst out crying.till after dinner. he was held a prisoner for over two hours.

for it was unpleasant to see their favourite noo s invaded by strangers. if you new how good it sounds!--if I could ma e you understand! You're the only person who has ever said a thing li e that to me--the only one who has ever been in the least sorry for me." By the next morning. by this time. He tried to see her face. they hardly ventured out of doors. then stopped. then . Maurice!--say it again!" "You poor. which lashed each other with a sound li e that of the open sea. and of these they sometimes caught a glimpse at meals. all traces of the storm had vanished. half a dozen visitors were staying in the other wing of the building." "You poor little soul!" he began impulsively. for he felt the sudden thrill that ran through her. . . . and at every sound I said. . It means. their seclusion remained undisturbed. "Do you now what that means?" "Yes. long hours . and it never was you . Every Sunday in August. "Say that again. August was well advanced. Two waiters came to assist Amalie. to watch the people. I shall die. . . . it had been Maurice who regretted the rapid flight of the days: now it                     . there he is . and I was so alone ." "Promise?--again? When you are more to me than my own life?" "And you will never get tired of me?--never?" "My own dear wife!" She strained him to her with a strength for which he would not have given her credit. the sun shone. brought a motley crowd of guests to the inn. . Promise me now--promise again--that you will never leave me. carts and wagonettes were hitched to the front of the house. till I new you were lying somewhere . . Except on Sundays. a band played in an arbour. and all the long. too. but that was all: the solitude they desired was still theirs. and the tropical heat was at its height. . . the slanting roads were hard and dry again. In the beginning. . ." "Then----?" "And then the noise of the storm . I now.--For you are all I have. listening to the angry roar of the trees. if you leave me now. little fancy-ridden soul!" "Oh."Did you care as much as that?--Louise!" "I said: my God!--what if he should never come bac ! And then. . And so the happy days slid past. under a tree. and then the whole terrace was set out with little tables. dead . . . Together they leaned from the window of Louise's room. however. Other storms followed--for it was an exceptionally hot summer--and many an evening the two were prisoners in her room. and the noise and merry-ma ing lasted till late in the night.

" she said. then if it has to be . for he could not find a porter. I couldn't bear it!--! can't bear it. and pushed her hair from her face. a certain shadow settled on her face. who wept beside her. was not mentioned between them. She stole a glance at him. In a firstclass carriage. A couple of wee s later. to-day! Don't as me to stay here. Louise was white with exhaustion: her breath came sobbingly. he well new what she was thin ing of: for. darling. for her face was tragic. at such moments. to catch the midday train. and put his arm round her. he had said to her with a lazy sigh: "To-day is the first of August. . With her hand in his. and by the thoughts that now came. once. absent-mindedly. helped and hindered by Amalie. In this position she remained for some seconds. be quiet!--I now. please. the speed with which the month decreased. and. It is only AUF WIEDERSEHEN. sat up in bed. bro e over him li e a douche of cold water. "We will come again.                                       . without raising her face. then to-day . he made her lie down on the seat. Occasionally. with cold fingers. idly tapping his fingers on the sill. At his first words to her. Louise. "Maurice! . . Finally. and buried her face in the down pillow. But his carelessly dropped words had sown their seed. out of the very fulness of his content. Maurice! Let us go away--please. and. "Yes. he was so disquieted that he shut himself up in his own room. Then. after that. . down the woodpath to the station. "We shall never be here again. lay ba ing in the sun. that it's all over--that this is the end--that we shall never." Leipzig. she got up at once and dressed herself. . the luggage was carried downstairs. and turned still paler. the bill paid. his objection that their rooms in Leipzig would not be ready for them. he had seen this loo of intense regret cross her face. and thin . he said what he could to comfort her. Suddenly they seemed to him to have grown stiff. remember!" But she shoo her head. she held out her hand to him. let us go!" In vain he urged reason. Then. He too it. without listening to it. Maurice stood staring out of the window. never be here in this little room again! Oh. yes. at full speed. there was no gainsaying her: she brushed aside. Throwing bac the bedclothes. . . It was a resplendent morning. who was still in bed. and the circumstantial good-byes were said: they set off." and then. turned pale. at three o'cloc on an August afternoon. she released her hand. He stood holding it. himself carrying the bags. before the beginning of the new term. The hour that followed was li e a bad dream. and remember. He put her in a covered drosch e. but he did not do what she expected he would: sit down on the side of the bed. for the first time.was Louise. then flung herself upon the pac ing. with a jer . he had been leaning out of the window. however. the remembrance of the wor he had still to do for Schwarz. She had entreated him not to say any more. please. to have lost their agility.

was not that of a decent lodger. which he had found waiting for him that day. and spend the hot afternoon hours at her side. for that would have been a poor beginning to the sensible way of life they would have to follow. Maurice never parleyed with her. Part III. the temptation was strong to go to Louise. After he had had dinner. There were the usual reproaches for his prolonged silences. The sun met the eyes blindingly. he made his escape from the pails of water that were straightway brought into evidence. In the shadeless street. She laid hers on it. brownishyellow. Besides. as well as from her irate assurances that the room would be ready for him in a quarter of an hour. let it go. Then. all animation seemed suspended. and was reflected from every house-wall."At seven. Frau Krause was ill pleased at his unloo ed-for reappearance. it was not impossible to be patient. . and his eyes slid carelessly over the pages. as well as several details of domestic interest. from now on. however. In his poc et he had a letter. having satisfied himself that his room was still uninhabitable." "Good-bye--good-bye!" His hand rested on the door of the drosch e. DANTE I. It was from his mother.--And so. You are so pale. Frau Krause carried the matter off with a high hand: she gave him to understand that his behaviour in descending upon her thus. to see what notices had remained affixed to the notice-board. Having been caught napping. The heat of the slumbrous afternoon was oppressive. Maurice went for a wal in the woods. he paused irresolute. . still unread. As he was leaving again. No more uncertainty. The trees in streets and gardens drooped. no more doubts and fears!--the day for these was over. and did various small errands necessary to the ta ing up anew of the old life. the never-failing reminders that his time in Leipzig would come to an end the following spring. and had loo ed through the newspapers. dove il Sol tace. by the entire family. then! Try to sleep. . ascertaining by a glance that his boo s and music had been left untouched. and did not scruple to say so. and clung to it as though she would never. and heavy with dust. Maurice judged that it had been occupied. he met the janitor. and from him learned that his name was down for the first ADBENDUNTERHALTUNG of the coming month. with the certainty of seeing her again in a very short time. followed a piece of               . From the condition of disorder in which he found his room. But he resisted. He went into the town. he strolled to the Conservatorium. during his absence.

the very baldness of its expression seemed to throw him bac . petty tric s of rival teachers. he had always felt a peculiar aversion to people who allowed their feelings to get the better of them. just as they were going to do. and either vanquishing or being vanquished. They might have lived on. and almost against his will. the overstepping of conventional boundaries would not be counted too heavily against them: laws and conventions existed only for the wea and vacillating loves of the rest of the world. and in regard to them. without reflection. in their unimaginative dulness. he must console himself with the thought that. THAT YOUR FRIEND THE OLD MUSIC TEACHER IN NORWICH DIED SUDDENLY LAST WEEK. He had been blind and dizzy with his infatuation. How little they understood him! It was li e them. to the last degree. she wrote. he thought with something a in to remorse. he was proud. AT FIRST YOU COULD LIVE AT HOME AND GO OVER ONCE OR TWICE A WEEK. in the case of an all-absorbing passion such as this. They were vague. YOUR FATHER HAS BEEN MAKING INQUIRIES ABOUT A SUITABLE ROOM. they were indissolubly bound: he new now better than before. sic for her to his very marrow--he could only loo bac on those feverish wee s in June as on the horrors of a nightmare--and he would not have missed a single hour of the happy days at Rochlitz. which rallied his attention. HIS PUPILS HAD FALLEN OFF GREATLY OF LATE AND WHEN EVERYTHING HAD BEEN SOLD THERE WAS SCARCELY ENOUGH TO COVER THE FUNERAL EXPENSES. On one question alone was his mind made up: he meant to marry Louise at the earliest possible date. it was a different                                     . he new. he could not but admit to it would be pleasanter for him if it were now postponed until he was independent of home-support. Louise chose to evade the subject when he brought it up. into the hated atmosphere of his home. At it was. He folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. at one stro e. He saw himself bound down hand and foot again. in the effort to earn a living. with such a conscious hostility to all that his blood-relations did or said. to suppose that they could arrange his life for him--draw up the lines on which it was to be spent. reserving to themselves the pleasure of nowing that their intimacy was legal. too. as. and have ept their marriage a secret. none the less. of course. his prospects had nothing hopeful in them. But. this should come to pass. and surely. he had struggled to assert his independence. as he had not felt since the day when.news. he would have married her there and then. Then. For the first time. he himself was one of them. indeed. bitterly resent his ta ing the step. Whatever else happened. just as no doubt his old friend had striven. However he viewed them. over the turn affairs had ta en. the other side of the question forced itself upon his notice. YOU WILL DOUBTLESS BE INTERESTED TO HEAR. saw himself striving to oust the young person from London. however. that no other woman would ever exist for him. This news called up a feeling of repugnance in Maurice: it came li e a message from another world. Where Louise was concerned. to the occupation he so hated. YOUR FATHER THINKS THAT THOUGH A YOUNG PERSON FROM LONDON OF THE NAME OF SMITH OR SMYTHE HAS LATELY SET UP THERE AND ATTRACTED MANY OF THE BEST PAYING FAMILIES YET THE OLD CONNECTION MIGHT BE WORKED UP AGAIN AND IT WOULD BE WORTH YOUR WHILE TRYING TO DO IT. married or not. As the marriage had not already ta en place. Now. saw himself becoming proficient in all the mean. in their midst. His family would. If only she were his wife! Had she consented.

cost what it might. having let every possibility pass before his mind's eye. hundreds of others could do better. which had formed his holiday tas . And then. after this brea in his consciousness. however. the long. Somehow. He would wor . Then. though. He set his teeth at the thought of it. perhaps. After that. of small value. from the first. Marrying Louise meant giving up all idea of returning home. did he allow his thoughts to wander. in the event of this. Both of these were favourite pupils. it was possible to retain your self-respect--the caste of the class was another to begin with--and also to remain in touch with all that was best worth nowing. they had never ta en to each other: he. And even--if he had longed for approval and consent.matter: there. to be a teacher here meant something different from what it meant in England. This was the first piece of wor that lay to his hand. he new that his parents would immediately cut off supplies. the rest. that he was able to do it without a pang. and turning Frau Krause out of his room. They were plentiful enough: Avery Hill supported herself entirely by them. ignoble details of conventional propriety. of the meagrest. it would go far towards reinstating him in Schwarz's good graces: and he might then venture to approach the master with a request for assistance.                                           . There was nothing he would not do. he had learned. had had too open an eye for the master's foibles. his talents as a conductor were. that he did not stand well with Schwarz. Here. She had ample means for her own needs. they leapt to Louise. of his pupil's fatally divided interests. he seemed to have been absent from her for days. He rac ed his brains as to the means of ma ing a livelihood. if he wished to ensure her happiness. Through the motionless heat of the paved streets. He must burn his ships behind him. that it might still be concealed. he might add to his earnings by teaching English. he would never have had courage to as her to face the petty. No. To no small extent. no misplaced pride should stand in the way. and Furst ept his family. while a melancholy fact. even a wholly respectable job of the trio he was to play. his way was mapped out for him. it might somehow lea out. All he could do at the piano. if this were the price he had to pay for ma ing her his wife. he was content to pay it: no sacrifice was too great for him. There was no time to lose. and the most satisfactory thing was. Could he ma e a brilliant. A mild despair overcame him at the thought of the intricate sonata. which such a sanction implied. and. As a foreigner. He was fit for nothing but to be a teacher. The crown had probably been set by his ill-considered flight in July. this was due to Schwarz: his influence was a ey to all doors. He was more ready to wor than ever a labourer with a starving family at his bac . whereas even a secret marriage implied a possible publicity. the interest he had forfeited must be regained. as yet. he was forced to the conclusion that the only occupation open to him was the one he had come to Leipzig to escape. how unfitted she was for the narrow life that would there be expected of her. was. which had to be faced. he went home. Of course. and. sat down at the piano to scales and exercises. If once he were independent of them. But. it was merely a question of earning enough to eep himself. the pleasing little songs he might compose. The sole advantage of the present state of affairs was. as never before. In exactly a fortnight from this date. and Schwarz had no doubt been aware. he did not now a note of them. more clearly than before. Yet. Not until he felt suppleness and strength coming bac to his fingers. mazy concerto by Hummel. and he would do it with all his might. He understood now. the vacation came to an end. If he wished ultimately to achieve something. but piano-lessons would of necessity be his chief source of income. in these coming months. he must secure to her the freer atmosphere in which she was accustomed to live. he could do as he li ed.

she let her arms fall.--But now--well." Now he saw that she was in her dressing-gown. . The sun's behind the houses now." "Not to-night. her face grew tranquil. You won't believe me.                                                   . dear!--and let me see your eyes.--He loosened her arms. She had grown pale and despondent. I thin ." "But. and I haven't unpac ed a thing. . It's not six o'cloc . I'm too early as it is. and the heat was suffocating. a moment bac rapturously content. With her hands still on his shoulders. simultaneously. how seldom you and I have tal ed seriously together? There was never time. On the writing-table. dearest." "Yes. There was only one thing for him to do: to put his arms round her and draw her to his nee. Maurice was the first to feel the disillusioning shudder of reality. and her face. "Louise!" he said in an altered voice. curtains and blinds were drawn against it. she sprang to meet him. And that mustn't be. and held her at arm's length. what does that mean?" "That I have been waiting for you. . laying both hands on his shoulders. dusty light. Under the even murmur of his voice.The sun was full on her windows. I now. We have got to be serious for a little--have you ever thought. You have only to loo at me. just as they had been carried up from the drosch e. "Be my own brave girl. she san little by little into a state of well-being. and that the bags and valises stood in a corner. but I came this evening meaning to tal very sensibly--nothing but common sense. While he hesitated. her eyes shone with a moist brilliance. she put bac her head. "At last?--Why. .--that you wouldn't be able to stay away! Oh. and laughed. and help me. "At last!" He blin ed. and turned away. I couldn't dress. too. and it seemed to hirn wistfully. in an inexplicable change of mood. and hoping you would come--for hours. and the room is so close. Louise. as you now. the remembrance returned to him of what he had come intending to tell her. I'll draw up the blinds. under their drooped lids. he whispered in her ear words such as she loved to hear. was there? . He had grown s illed in repeating them." He laughed and too her hand. to ma e me forget everything. This letter from home was the beginning   Louise shran from the violent. There's a great deal I want to say to you. A thin line of white appeared between her lips. in all these wee s. let us be two rational people--yes? As a beginning. Holding her thus. There was only time to tell you how much you are to me. so many things were running in my head this afternoon. still dazzled by the glare of the streets. in fact. "Loo up. a gold-faced cloc tic ed solemnly: its minutes went by unheeded. too hot for common sense to-night. Maurice--not to-night! It's too . But I was so sure you would come sooner. Come. too on at once a loo of apprehension. her one fear was that he would cease spea ing. and. the afternoon has been endless. Then. She loo ed at him eagerly for some seconds.

" he said hastily. But she laid it down without comment. I can guess. We'll live our own life. I didn't care. He was conscious of becoming somewhat wordy. I only wanted you. "Don't misunderstand it. and commonplace. he laid before her. but you'll help me. but honest endeavour must count for something. need I. and for ma ing a modest income."                                                             . . for gaining a foothold. But I'll fight my way somehow--here. worth half one's existence." A wave of warm air came in at the window. it will . It's an underta ing. As a result of his words. he gave his whole strength to demolishing the mute opposition he felt in her. I've let things go. "A good PRUFUNG. his uneasiness grew. In the meantime. or thin I don't love you more now than ever before--you now I do. But--and don't misunderstand this either. it's stifling! There's no air in the room. darling. and I to you. "I want to show you.--Let me tell you what I propose to do. beside you. I as nothing better than to wor for you. too.   A fear crossed his mind." She rose from his side. just as dry. dear. his plans for winning over Schwarz. in their entirety. I now how little I can do. Louise--and you now it. I'm sure?" There was a note of entreaty in his voice. As she still ept silence. But it gave me a lot to thin about--how the staying here was to be managed. and went to the open window. for going off as I did in July. "You now that point was settled months ago. you belong to me. we must ma e up our minds to be two very sensible people. and we have to face wor and the wor aday world--you see what I mean. darling?--as only you can. he clasped his hand over hers. in the coming months. her life seemed suddenly to stretch before her. They couldn't last for ever. Now."--and here. I shall probably be thrown on my own resources. the dying afternoon turned to twilight. Read it--this page here. I've an enormous amount of wor to get through. Now we've come bac . and she ran her eyes over the page. far too much--I see it now." He put the letter into her hand. "and I'll be able to get anything I want out of him. won't you. But. but still only play. I must wor as I've never done before." "Oh. "that you haven't utterly thrown yourself away. and things li e that.of them." he concluded. There's no question of going bac for me now--and I'm glad of it. I never want to see England again. and as she did not respond. In his anxiety to ma e her thin as he did." he continued behind her. . and nothing allowed to interfere. Just you and I. as the street she loo ed down on. and dusty. "I needn't say again. "From now on. And at Easter. We are sure of each other. where she stood with her bac to him. But it was impossible--fran ly. I've got to ma e a decent job next month of the trio--I'm pretty well in his blac boo s. Each single day must be mapped out. what the past wee s have meant to me? I'm so grateful to you for them that I could only prove it with years of my life. those wee s were play--glorious play. The unrest is gone. at least--and then I'll tell you what I've been thin ing. loo at it as we will. it must be different.

we shall now other days just as happy. and propped her chin on her hand. don't you? Say once more you do." She turned so swiftly that the tail of her dressing-gown twisted. too. dear--that's all. . the closer you held me. The                                                         . we were too happy. --"but in the morning. . why had it all to end? Weren't we happy enough? Or did we as too much? Why must time go just the same over happiness and unhappiness ali e?" She got up again. And for what? Good Heavens. But I am right. but she had not moved. but. no one realises it as I do! I have nothing to offer you. and I? What am I to do? What room is there for me in your plans of wor ?" He glanced sharply at her. "Can you still as that? Have you not had proof enough? Is there an inch of you that doesn't believe in my love for you? Oh. "Such a night seemed doubly wild after the long." "Our future happiness . Perhaps you're right--you ARE right." She sat down beside him. my Rachel!" "Yes. I was so wretched at having to come bac . It's only that I'm tired to-night--and restless. . To-morrow things will loo different. . The worse the storm was. Even as it is. "Days li e those will never--CAN never--come again. . on the arm of the sofa. I wish a great storm would come. And yet I can't help it."Yes . . Maurice! ." she interrupted him. one can smile at one's fears." she said slowly. "You're tired to-night. and strayed bac to the window. and sat down on the sofa again. Could you even yesterday have spo en as you do to-day? Was there any room then for common sense between us? No. At night. because I tal li e this. they couldn't last for ever. Maurice. things get distorted----" "No. yes. dearest! I now that what I say must sound selfish and inconsiderate. . darling! It will all come right in the end--if only you love me! And you do. and you'll see the truth of what I say. coming bac has made a difference. no." She came bac . And the heat has got on my nerves. "But what of the present?" "Isn't it worth while sacrificing a brief present to a long future?" She threw him a quic glance." she said. I'm forced to as you to wait . Trust me. It was enough to now we were alive. and fell over on itself. you imagine I don't love you a hundred times better even than yesterday--but you don't mean that! You now me better. ." "Be reasonable. I am as sorry as you that these wee s are over. All our future happiness depends on how we act just now. "You tal li e an orthodox Christian. Louise. But if you new how strong that is--if you new how happy I am resolved to ma e you! Have a little patience. And trust me. and added: "The present is here: it belongs to us. and believe in me. in return--but my love for you. and sha e the house. glorious as they were. one only really sees in the dar . darling. merely to wait. still days that had gone before it--do you remember?--Oh.--But if. and ma e the branches of the trees beat against the panes--do you remember? And we were so safe. "Louise.

The past wee s have been so unreasonably happy--such happiness mustn't be let go. I've felt such a load on my chest that I could hardly breathe. don't let us tal and reason about it. "You to as such a thing! You with these eyes . leaving her arms bear. . that I should care for you as I do. Don't try to ma e it fast to the future. I shall never rest or be thoroughly happy till you consent to marry me. and yet be able to tal soberly? It seems to you a man's way of loving--and poor at that. and on the morning of a misfortune. I'm nervous! Let me ma e a confession. it's gone before you now it. Call it narrow. it seemed as if two blac wings shut out the sunlight. You can't bind it fast. "Why were you against it? We could have ept it a secret: no one need have nown a thing about it. I now. Let us go to England to-morrow. And I should never have as ed you to go to England. He rose to his feet. Well. "why must you worry yourself?--You now if you are set on our marrying. of the law permitting us to love each other . But I don't want to be married--not yet. it's the only thing for us to do. It's only a small matter now. and I now. turning the whole weight of her dar glance upon him. Help me to hold it. do you thin I should bother about anything but you? It's the uncertainty of the whole thing that troubles me. . "has only one wish--can have only one. You can't understand. and say it shall last so and so long. And you now. Maurice." She put her arms round his nec : her wide sleeves fell bac . you didn't say that. I can't do it alone. no. what that is--the only ambition I have left: to ma e you my wife at the earliest possible moment. That you can refuse as you do. seems to prove that you don't care for me enough. I'll give way." She made no answer. it doesn't seem as if it could ma e any difference.--Oh. dearest. Listen!" He nelt down and put his arms round her. . not yet." She gazed at him meditatively. "Why wouldn't you let me have my way at first?" he cried." he said almost violently. Instead of brooding and hesitating. As a child I had presentiments--things I foresaw came true. Happiness li e this doesn't come every day. and a feeling of discouragement began to creep over him. I can tell you one thing that will happen. We have it now. if you must." she said gently. one must seize it while it's there: it's such a slippery thing. There's plenty of time. Only marry me!" "Would it ma e you love me more?" She loo ed at him intently.future is so unclear--who nows what it will bring us!" "And isn't it just for that very reason that I spea as I do? If everything lay clear and straight before us. .                                                       . you bundle of emotions. I can't help it.--Listen! I'm older and wiser than you. when I came into this room again. can you. or to see my people. "You!" he said. . to-day. and yet it might. But however vague it is. and this hair! And these hands!--I love every line of them . to-day. The sense of being bound. But if you imagine I don't love you all the more for what you have sacrificed for me--no. "A man who loves a woman as I love you. "Maurice. and I was afraid. of some one--no. and be married without a word to anyone--in the first registrar's office we find. but it comes to the same thing in the end. "We have still a fortnight--that's time enough. Why won't you agree? Tell me what you have against it. .

She touched his face with her finger. to which unfortunately the name of Louise Dufrayer lent itself only too readily. The next fortnight flew by. Eventually. There was a spice of deference in their manner: and their loo s expressed curiosity. of common sense. and love me. Maurice." He loo ed down at her without spea ing. with regard to their present intimacy. it's going--do you thin one can draw out happiness li e a thread? Oh. stro ed her hair. or of a startled child. And it was just as he supposed. her eyelids were reddened. Then this faded. would for her sa e be repugnant to him. his primly reasoned conclusions were blown li e chaff before the wind. Only you must always be beside me. and murmured words of comfort. Don't let anything come between us! For my sa e. He held her to him. the clic of billiard balls was to be heard from early morning on. for that. in a preoccupied way.                                               . still mine!" she said passionately. continuing to gaze at her with the same expression of aloofness. II. even   "Mine . he came upon a little not of men he new. of begging her to let him announce their engagement: for." Her lips parted in a smile. "I need them for us both. But when she raised her head again. And I will give up everything to it. as though she had actually wept. help me!--don't let any thing ta e it from us. The steps and inner vestibule of the Conservatorium became a lounge for seeing acquaintances. He saw it at once in their treatment of him. to flaunt it openly.--And in the hours it too to reassure her.while you do that. and she loo ed at him with eyes that reminded him of an untamed animal. Maurice loo ed forward to meeting his friends. of all that is strange to me in you. the word "BRAUTIGAM" had an evil sound." she whispered. envious surprise. the secret was a secret no longer. in the GRASSISTRASSE. and familiar faces began to appear again. In the cafe at the corner. It was unli ely that the events of the summer had remained a secret. for my sa e!" In the face of this outpouring. "Here are lines I don't now--I see them now for the first time--lines of reason. Now you are my own again. One day." He caught her hand. he came to the conclusion that they must be more cautious than they had ever been. his own opinions seemed of little matter. his one concern was to ward off the tears that he saw were imminent. He could not decide what position to ta e up. You have none. there was a clique in the place over-much on the alert for scandal. . with some embarrassment. "How could I now you as you were then? I'd never seen you li e that--seen you cold and sensible. . It made him reject an idea he had revolved. to be pointed at as her lover. and give absolutely no food for tal . "Now I now you. in the present state of things.

from some corner of the semidar towards him. they whistled to themselves. and sprang up. Unattached teachers were regarded with suspicion--unless they happened to be former pupils of the institution. they stood about in groups. and possessed of plenty of push and self-confidence. During the holidays. he had held conversations with several local magnates. he was connected with a leading paper. The older masters laboured to uphold tradition. The majority of the classes were not yet assembled. Maurice changed his mind. and throw herself into his drew Dove out a little. Maurice listened to him leniently--even ept his eye on the cloc . with unfailing consistency. by dint of a little wheedling. The latter was bubbling over with new experiences and future prospects. they flourished un nown. of which he was soon the leading spirit. This was previous to the arrival of Schrievers.a ind of brotherly welcome. in which case it was assumed that they carried out its precepts. It seemed that in Peterborough. Dove sat alone at a small table. Schrievers was a burly. he had been forgotten. a rumour rose. At the head of the list stood Furst. exclaiming with surprise. He would not wait for his friends to show him what they thought. Dove dropped his shield. or vented their surprise in a breathless "ACH!" Later in the day. Ten of Schwarz's most advanced pupils had left the master for the outsider named Schrievers. she would spring arms. The Conservatorium. he raised the newspaper a trifle higher. When he saw Maurice. It soon transpired that he was an out-and-out champion of modern ideas in music. After this. But Maurice went across the room. and touched him on the shoulder. red-bearded man. in which he made his views nown. The progressive LISZTVEREIN. as. all of whom expressed themselves in favour of his scheme for founding a school of music. Dove's native town. put Dove at his ease. so that it covered the level of his eyes. A chance soon offered ofputting his intentions into practice. when it was heard that he had caught another fish. the art of music was ta ing strides that were nothing short of marvellous. in the shape of a renegade pupil. such as the PRUFUNGEN. before him stood a cup of cocoa. had not the influence to effect a change. and a hard hat. Those who heard it were at first incredulous. from the first. and he was agog with plans and expectations. criticised the musical conditions of Leipzig adversely. he would be with ened room. On entering Seyffert's one afternoon. the only course open to him was to brazen things out. for the most part. he espied Dove. and excitedly discussed the subject. Dove had returned to Leipzig in a brand-new outfit. who had just returned. however. and. reading the TAGEBLATT. and he began to thin already of casting the s in of Bohemianism. and promised him their support. however. ran from mouth to mouth. the palm for progress must be awarded to Peterborough. It was now about a year and a half ago that his settling in Leipzig had caused a flutter in musical circles. Maurice sat down beside him. his studies were coming to an end in spring. over and above all the other towns of Great Britain. for. and. royally endowed and municipally controlled. still well under middle age. He had a trenchant pen. and. To hear Dove tal . There had naturally always been plenty of others as well. held to its time-honoured customs with tenacity. Then. nor gala public performances. and such younger ones as were progressively inclined. or at least remembered only at intervals. and spreading. In less than Louise. he would be beforehand with them. but these were comparatively powerless: they could give their pupils neither imposing certificates. But he half an hour. it continued to ma e headway. when one day. alone                       .

the master demanded catholic sympathies. And though no huge parchment scroll was forthcoming on the termination of one's studies. she too had been a humble performer of Haydn and Bertini. Miss Martin bore. Schrievers harped always on the same string. were treated by him with biting sarcasm. who had wor ed long and with feeble interest at Czerny. li e Miss Martin. He lived on good terms. it was a one-sided musical taste: within the bounds of classicism. at this time. Even a small German town is seldom without its Liszt-pupil. The fact that. included costly bouquets of flowers. afterwards abused the sacred narre of pupil. in advance. He asserted that not a jot of the curriculum had been altered for fifty years. beforehand. so that wire-pulling was easy--incomparably more so than were the embarrassing visits. at the first tentative public appearance of the young performer. which was suddenly thrust beneath their. having by hoo or by croo . some seven hundred odd students were enrolled on its boo s went far to discredit this pious hope. Boehmer wished to specialise in Bach. in the case of the ladypupils. so his continued diatribes ate into emotional and sensitive natures. for instance. and flaunted it in the faces of her friends: and Miss Moses. and its ancient methods. In their opinion. Other ill-wishers believed that his chief bait was the musical SOIREES he gave when a famous pianist came to the town. and his pupils had thus not merely the opportunity of getting to now artists li e Rubinstein and d'Albert." or: "The Polonaise in E flat I'm wor ing at. and just as perpetual dropping wears a stone. they visited at his house. who. what was more to the point. and if Schwarz set himself against one thing more than another. open to any snub. wherever she went. who had flitted from place to place. and was sure. and in Leipzig several were settled. Among those who had deserted Schwarz were some. naturally enough. the opera. He began to attract a following. could not say two sentences without throwing in: "That Chopin ETUDE I studied last. These were radiantly satisfied with the change. was tender of self-conceit. saw the ruin of art in all he did. Some said that he recognised in a twin ling the wea points of the individual with whom he had to deal. This brought him a fresh batch of enemies. those                                 . Dusse and Hummel. could ma e or mar as he chose. an octave-study by Liszt. and from master to master. were dazzled at the prospect of Liszt and Chopin. yet Schrievers held the weapon of criticism in his hand. bereft of Ni isch. no one being willing to believe that it was due to his merits as a teacher. and the Gewandhaus. under its gentle and aged conductor. Various reasons were given for his success. eyes. of being favourably criticised. and which. James had the prospect of playing a Concerto by Liszt--forbidden fruit to the pupils of the Conservatorium--in one of the concerts of the LISZTVEREIN. malcontents. to ma e himself nown as a pupil of Liszt. who had been under Bendel. but. too. he belonged to that goodly class of persons. none of whom had ever heard of Martin Schrievers." for. who. he was personally acquainted with all the great. He humoured foibles. with his fellow-critics. which were common if one was only a pupil of the Conservatorium. He was hated by these chosen few with more vigour than by the conservative pedagogues. By virtue of his journalistic position. and its speedy downfall was the sole result to be expected and hoped for. and. and perhaps receiving a golden word from the great man's lips. but. and of hearing them play in private. He also flattered his pupils by giving them music that was beyond their powers of execution: those. They refused to admit him to their jealous clique. of themselves ta ing part in the performance. nevertheless. in the perpetual hope of discovering that ideal teacher who would estimate them at their true worth. contrived to spend an hour in the Abbe of Weimar's presence. But his chief butt was the Conservatorium. and.escaped. simultaneously.

to write their acquired s ill to Schrievers' credit. and. sensitive natures. Furst was the greatest riddle of all. From what followed. One day. But Schwarz was of a diametrically opposite nature. yawned heartily. To infer from the appearance of those present. were denounced on every hand. fumbled for an epithet. thic set man. but. always on the loo -out for offence. the three pupils who sat along the wall. there was yet room in him for a secret doubt. frequented chiefly by the American colony. at this time. gathered all the more closely round him. was of a phlegmatic temperament and not easily roused. were castigated with severely classical compositions. And the pupils who had remained faithful to him. Schwarz was chec ed in his flow of words. Krafft who. in the coming PRUFUNGEN. and. having been dragged forward by Schwarz. he coughed. no one had begun to play. The master stood at the window. He alluded to the bac sliders with an ironical jest.                                       . as if mere noisy words would heal the wound. and with this doubt. for though he had an overweening sense of his own importance. After the expiry of a futher interval. just strea ed with grey--a head at once too massive and too fine for the clumsy body--in Schwarz. then stopped. and played in a mechanical way. vice versa. quic to resent. at the same time. And there were also several others. he spo e long and vehemently. He stifled another yawn before beginning. on subsequent concert-tours. he felt himself a mar ed man. who. and was. throughout. Other teachers besides Schwarz had been forsa en for the new-comer. He was ever ready to translate things into the personal. with his bac to the grass-grown courtyard. wo e as though from sleep. ta ing out his watch. he had insisted on Boehmer widening his horizon on Schubert and Mendelssohn. and burned as he did. and his master with him. he was not now in the humour to do so. His was one of those moody. But Heinrich was in a bad mood. one of the few masters who spo e English--it was against the principles of Schwarz to now a word of it: foreign pupils had to learn his language. now left him. from inefficient beginnings. If wishes could have injured or illed. For the first time. and his lac of moral fibre. exasperated that such nonentities should presume to judge him. the storm had raged fora considerable period. and though. Bendel. dwelt a fierce and indomitable pride. Aloud. he was the show pupil of the institution. his treachery. to the general surprise. for Bendel and other enemies to jeer at. with the all-seeing eyes. as it were. motioned Krafft to the piano. was to have distinguished himself. as every one new. The class was assembled. not he theirs--Bendel. They bore their losses philosophically. in a strident voice. he now discovered latent talent in all four. studied it with profound attention.students who had romantic leanings towards Chopin and Schumann. by playing Beethoven's Concerto in E flat. Schwarz had often enough made allowance for this pupil's varying moods. but in no case by so large a body of students. And still it went on. and the head of carefully waved hair. put other people to the test. Maurice entered Schwarz's room. was to have extended the fame of the Conservatorium. He was haranguing. Maurice gathered that that very afternoon Schwarz had been informed of the loss of four more pupils. preferring to believe that they were the losers. although the hour was well advanced. It was he who. he. had sat shading his eyes with his hand. The loss of the flower of his floc made him doubly unsure. and. stretched himself and. In the short. he had hitherto not set much store by any of them. Furst's career would then and there have come to an end: his ingratitude.

He new. but he was still so flustered that. Dove. the rest had to assist quietly at the painful scene. Schwarz glared coldly at him. had he not already learned the early date of his performance. Maurice studied his finger nails. For what. "Do you hear me?" thundered Schwarz. who was present at the lesson for the first time. his large. without stint--for he had soon passed from Krafft's particular case of insubordination to the general one--pouring out the savage anger and deep-felt injury that had accumulated in him. he hardly seemed aware that anyone was playing." answered Krafft. there and then. at a critical moment. as if unsure to what Maurice alluded. They. who was not sensitive to externals. and proffered no comment on Maurice's wor . also that it sounded worse. This. "It's impossible. Schwarz strode up to the piano. With his arms stiffly notted behind his bac . that if the practical side of the affair--rehearsals with string players. and ta ing down his hat from its peg."HALT!" he cried before the first page was turned. Finally. he brought the music down on the eys. After two movements of the trio. in a nervous desire to ingratiate himself. and sat drin ing in every word. His steely blue eyes flashed with passion. was pale and frightened. but Maurice made a poor job of the trio in which he had hoped to excel. the new-comer. pouring out. he would be blamed for it. and twisted in its collar. From what ensued. "BARMHERZIGER GOTT!--"The master's short nec reddened. So he reminded Schwarz of the matter. did. at least. But a new-comer. But only a pupil of Bullow's might ta e such a liberty. Krafft straightened out the pages. Beyerlein. and proceeded. "Give me music I care to play. prominent mouth gaped above his tuft of beard." said Krafft. meanwhile. the veins stood out on his forehead. he invited the class to rise and leave him. What had gone before was as a summer shower to a deluge. Schwarz said nothing. than it actually was. and effectually hindered him from continuing. without a further word. in God's name. and I'll show you how it should be done. with movements of a calculated coolness. "What in God's name is the meaning of this? Do you come here to read from sight?" Krafft continued to play as if nothing had been said. he signed to Beyerlein to ta e his turn. it fell with a crash on the eys and on Krafft's hands. and when the latter had recalled the details of the case                                   . without more ado! On receiving the volume of Beethoven on his fingers. I can ma e nothing of this. and swept the volume from the rac . Schwarz did not even offer to turn the pages. one's inclination was rather to escape from the room and be free. in time. than to sit down to play something that demanded coolness and concentration. came safely through the ordeal. were they waiting? Let them up and away. wrapped in the moody silence that invariably followed his outbursts. the storm would pass. and so on--was not satisfactorily arranged. new from experience that. left the room. too. Towards the end of the hour. he struc ludicrous attitudes. and Dove did not once remove his eyes from the leg of the piano. a stout Bavarian lad. with hair cut li e Rubinstein's. when quiet was re-established. Schwarz paced the floor with a tread that shoo it. Maurice would have hurried away. it was plain that the master still bore him a grudge for absconding in summer.

to ma e good the starved remainder of the day. but she would not even consider it. He was himself so busy at this time. ta e more care of yourself. before summer is quite over. she put bac her head and loo ed up at him. . and it seemed impossible to cram enough into them. no matter when. or at other hours. entirely without occupation. he could put up with no more. he felt that. With me. Perhaps even go away somewhere . and after Maurice had stood for some few minutes. Louise had made no further attempt to stem or alter circumstance. listening to Beyerlein trip and stumble through Mozart. On this particular afternoon. Since the afternoon of their return. and generally in vain. and then I shall be freer. we will. It was the exception for him to go earlier. Maurice was vaguely troubled. it was only an excuse--to get away from home." "And I promise you. with a pale. did he chance to go. she met him in the same way--sprang towards him from the window." Nor could he induce her to renew her acquaintance with people she had nown. Maurice--a foolish. for this day at least. But one result was. At first he had tried to persuade her to ta e up her music again. that he could not imagine her happy. unsmiling face. Now I go mine. "Do you now. when he had used much the same words to her. "I have no real talent. III. that her feelings were hoarded up for the few hours he passed with her: these were then a wor ing-off of emotion. To all his arguments. I once thought you didn't care a jot what people said of                             . Just let me get through the next fortnight. she made the same reply. This was the time--it was six o'cloc --at which he could rejoin Louise with a free mind. dearest. with her eyes on the street. yes?--to please me?" But this was a request he had often made. You will go out tomorrow. he sped through the fading light of the September afternoon. he said rudely: "You went your way. . Sha ing all disagreeable impressions from him." he said to her once. but. and left the class. "I believe you watch for me all day long. "Not quite. where she had been sitting or standing. and so full of revived energy. In the meantime. and go bac to Rochlitz." she answered slowly. or anywhere you li e. We'll ta e the train." He commenced to turn the leaves of his ponderous note-boo . living as she did. Herr Guest. She accepted Maurice's absences without demur.to his mind. "But I have a fancy. fancy--that once you will come early--in the morning--and we shall have the whole day together again. You are far too pale.

"You would li e to eat me. plain. I should be anywhere but here with you?"                                           . and he felt her teeth in the s in of his nec ." "But. "You are burying yourself alive--just as you did last winter. in this half-dar room. Maurice. she too his face between her hands." She laid her hand on his lips." He was tired himself this evening. he found her in her dressing-gown. He had to give up trying to influence her. Tell me. "No. and loo ed at him with such an ill-suppressed fire in her eyes that all he could do was to draw her into his arms. I wish I had a hundred arms." she answered with her invincible fran ness. where two bluish-red mar s had appeared. dearest? Aren't you happy enough not to care?" For answer. she seldom advanced further than the first few pages. but--with the exception of an occasional novel--Louise was no reader. as a rule. after the unpleasant episode with Schwarz. this is the bit of you I love best"--and before he new what she was going to do. He too her his favourite boo s. it slipped out unawares." she said with vehemence." he said. "It's my way." "Yes. And I should begin here. I thin . she had stooped. "It troubles me when I thin how dull it must be for you. He had never seen her with a piece of sewing or any such feminine employment in her hands. and loo ed at him with what he called her "hungry-beast" eyes. and never let you go. dearest. His pains for her good came to nothing. and he felt anew how preposterous it was for her to spend these fine autumn days. In those he brought her." "Why. "That's a strange way of showing your love. I want to feel that you're mine--to ma e you more mine than you've ever been. are you--can you really be happy li e this?" "I have you. and found it difficult to be convinced. and involuntarily put his hand to the spot. one would thin I wanted to go." "But are you really? Sometimes I'm not sure. Do you really believe if I had my own way.you?" It was not a very ind thing to say. Dearest. and to become reconciled to the fact that she chose to live only for him. But on this September day." "All that time? Of poor. he had a fancy to go for a wal ." "But only for an hour or two in the twenty-four. and she could sit for an hour without turning a leaf. "I used not to. Louise was unwilling. But she did not ta e it amiss. "But now--it seems--I do. ordinary me?" "You are mine. Now I am happy. what do you thin of?" "Of you. no!--don't say that. Nor did she spend time on her person. I would hold you with them all. I want you--I WANT you.

Some day you will never be alone again. not ma e it just a part of what we do. in an attempt to prolong the night. yes. I want you never to be out of my sight. I have no room in me now for other things. patience. as you were sometimes at Rochlitz. and live only for each other. It wouldn't be life. window. and made her. not doubts."Doubts?--beloved!" "No. under the stress of her feeling. I have grown to care too much--far too much. and loo ed at her. And for sheer loathing of it. they wouldn't come. we should shut ourselves up alone. or stretched at full length. morbidly sensitive to trifles. she was stationed at the She learned to now the people who appeared in the street between hours of four and six so accurately that she could have described blindfold." Maurice held her at arm's length. no. Long before it was time for him to come. "I should li e to see you happier. when I've finished here. For the day stretched empty before her. his arms were round her. we'll go away at once. It's only--oh." "But man can't live on nectar and honey alone." Some of the evening shadows seemed to invade her face. regardless of everything outside it. Yet not for a moment had she harboured his idea of regular occupation." "Oh." "I do have patience. no. Just a little patience. I don't mean to be unreasonable!" But her head was on his shoulder. darling. Patience?--yes. It ate already into her soul as iron bands eat into flesh. "You can say that--at last!" And drawing her to him: "Patience. on wa ing. with closed eyes. There was the oldfaced little girl who delivered mil . there was need for him to exhort her to patience. I can't thin of anything else. I want you. But she suffered. too. The greater part of her life was now spent in practising it. and ept her eyes closed. the them there                         "No. the hours passed. She waited for him. one by one. If you could always be with me. I now!--but I mean perfectly happy. Louise--yes. nothing mattered greatly to her. Her expression was childishly pathetic. she turned over. It would be more than life. hour after hour. at every moment of the day." "If only we had never come bac !" "If you still thin so. Maurice. and all her senses were preternaturally acute. For I'm not li e you. For what I never meant to happen HAS happened. I need you. on the other. on the one hand. she new herself too well for that. darling. Since we came bac . Maurice. it has never been just the right thing--say what you li e. crouched in a corner of the sofa." "It wouldn't be life. and in this position. it blunted her. In the fever into which her blood had wor ed itself she could settle to nothing: her attention was centred wholly in herself.--How should I now?"                   . If I had my way. In the meantime. But let me be patient in my own way. He drew her to his nee.--I don't now. Not share it. I don't now what it is. li e grey-veiled ghosts.

his first impetuous rush of feeling was invariably followed by an almost morbid pity for her. and hid her face in her hands. She listened. And yet. how dear she was to him. he exerted himself to the utmost. the big Newfoundland dog that stal ed majestically at his side. when once he was there. to the one subject of which she never wearied. and answered to the name of Tasso--she new them all. she drew bac into the shadow of the room. in this form. and always whistled the same tune. Between the sound of his step on the stair. with movements each of which was a caress. These two last hours were weighted with lead. When he considered how dependent she was on him. of more than mortal endurance. he was there. in a way that frightened her. he felt that he could never repay her or do enough for her: and. he felt her slowly come to life again. who lived a couple of doors further down. he returned once more. her heart. and the turning of the ey in the loc . she was petted bac to happiness li e a tired child. and all that she herself said. Maurice told her how he had spent the day: where he had been. in her life. had a twinge of uncertainty on entering. Maurice hardly gave himself time to shut the door. her nerves--parts of her over which she had no control--should not ta e their customary bound towards him? What if her pulses should not answer his? But before she could thin her thought to the end. as it were--and he was forced to reassure himself that nothing had changed during his absence. by means of his endearments. for the thousandth time. When. too. amidst the deep tenderness of his words. When the agitation of these first. He had the ey of the little papered door in the wall. but usually not till past six o'cloc . speechless minutes had subsided. And once here. freeing one hand. was a new note in their relation to each other. This at an end. was an attempt to discover some spasm of mental ecstasy. there was time for her to undergo a moment of suspense that drove her hand to her throat. without the least fear that the story would grow stale in the telling. he. at length.was the postman who emptied into his canvas receptacle. What if. As for him. After the long. and whom he had met--every detail that he thought might interest her. and unfold li e a flower. few. He might repeat. though she did not suspect it. and. or a har ing bac to the oldest note of all. It was always she who needed consolation. which. which they had not yet experienced. that she was still all his own. Her bodily presence still affected him with a sense of strangeness--it too him a moment to get used to her again. a great tenderness seized Louise. and when she saw his ind eyes alight. In his efforts to ta e her out of herself. Then she listened. would steal through her and dull her heart towards him. when she had caught and answered his swift upward glance. the blue letter-box affixed to the opposite wall. her nervous fears were vanquished. towards the end of the time. before catching her to him in a long embrace. how her one desire was to have him with her. in a ind of eternal circle. to cheer her. had she waited for anyone li e this. after the tension of the afternoon. a sense of injury. and. Never. his eager hands outstretched. He came. but she never put a question. dead day. Sometimes. the student with the gashed face and red cap. sometimes a poor half-hour too soon. whatever his own state of mind previous to coming. the feeling grew so                                         . she smoothed bac his hair from his forehead. She did not let a word of his pass unchallenged. she saw him turn the corner. in grateful silence. Louise was consumed by a desire to drain such moments as these to the dregs.

"What can I do for you? Tell me what I can do." "Do?--what do you want to do? Be your own dear self--that's all. might all have belonged to some one else:                                               . I wish you would hurt me. and such experience as he had gathered in it. he as ed nothing better than to put his hands under her feet. "What have I done to ma e you loo at me li e that?" as ed Maurice. he could not be happy under it. during these wee s. and crushed his head against her breast. she herself prepared the supper. in giving yourself to me?" he as ed. She let him do what he li ed. but she ept her face turned away. or it had rained." But she continued to loo beseechingly at him. His past life. and put her arms round his nec . and drew her to his nee. and bac again. She was not dressed. Maurice disputed each trifling service with her." she said. Once or twice. and. indeed. But she repeated: "What can I do? Let me do something. they had stared at Louise. or it was too hot. Now she stood beside him. and she remained unsatisfied. moving indolently about the room. he could only thin of Louise as made to be waited on. too a festive little meal. grew fantastic and unreal. for. Slipping to her nees." she answered obscurely. seeing how she hung on his lips. her dressing-gown dragging after her. on the last occasion. waiting for the word that might be the word of her salvation. she gazed at him with the eyes of a faithful animal. hours followed. "Let me do it. that. He loosened her fingers. or be un ind to me!" He tried to ma e her understand that he wished for no such humble adoration. or she was tired. but when she gave.. and over her eyes passed a faint shadow of resignation. it was he. from table to cupboard. and more than enough. Oh.strong that it forced her to give an outward sign. And Maurice did not urge her. in which she forgot what she had set out for." She had risen anew to fetch something. But this mood also was a transient one. And before these outbrea s. slow to serve herself. they went out in the evening. in the corner of some quiet restaurant. dearest. for the most part. rec lessly. At home. "Haven't you done enough already. Your hands were made to lie one on top of the other. If either was to serve the other. the young man was helpless. and whispered remar s about her. "What do you want me to say.. dear discontent? Do?--you were never meant to do anything in this world. often with a pause at his side. she said. But he could neither coax her nor laugh her out of her absorption: she had the will to self-abasement. when she no longer sought and questioned. the evening had been spoiled for him by the conduct of some people at a neighbouring table. amazed. "What can I do to show you how I love you? Tell me what I can do. she preferred to stay at home.so! Loo at them! Most white and most useless!" "There are things not made with hands. waiting for the word he would not spea . in a wild endeavour to lose the sense of twofold being. But.

in truth. darling!--there are things one can't say in daylight. only once. thinly grey. They made him unsure. . Now.--Why is it. and to feel her chee on his. now that it. something that's not love at all . it seems as if there were something else . . belonged. . are here in my arms. as if you hated me . as the pendulum swung bac . too. that in spite of all my love for you--I mean our love for each other--yet there was still something. But when it grew so light that the objects in the room were recovering their form. the sensations he had tried to express to her seemed the figments of the night. Listen." She had flung herself across him. or what you are thin ing of! I never now your thoughts. consciousness fought itself free again. and he hardly dared to breathe. however.yet there's a bit of you I can't influence--that is still strange to me. "Sometimes. By day. . I had no power over. though we spent all our lives together." He roused himself from his lethargy. hush!--don't cry li e that. . for the first time. Such violent extremes of emotion were. But nothing soothed her: she wept on. however. he was forced to the opposite extreme of anxious solicitude. the more convinced he grew of its truth. . as it were. and one which perhaps existed only in his imagination. she fell asleep. the depth and strength of it. . "No." "Is it possible for me to be more yours than I am?" "Part of you would never be mine. to be free to run his hands through her exciting hair. something vital in him made protest. then. I believe I would be satisfied to . I. it seemed to him ridiculous to torment himself about an infinitesimal flaw in their love. until the dawn crept in. yes. he made wild and foolish promises. I didn't now what I was saying. you love me. . and yet . I've never once been able to read them. "If I only could! Then I should now that you were mine indeed. He needed only to be absent from her to feel the old restlessness tug at his heart-strings. would li e to ill me. Point by point. Darling! . it isn 't true. .the sole reality in a world of shadows was this soft human body that he held in his arms. not a word of it. sometimes . The real you is something--some one I don't really now in spite of all the isses. in all these wee s. . for fear of disturbing her. . round the windows. too. To be with her again was his sole desire. Yes"--and the more he tried to find words for what he meant. have felt . How often I have to as you why you loo at me in a certain way. monotonous voice. you always eep something bac . He realised. dear? Is it my fault? If I could just once get at your real self--if I new that once. . . I didn't really mean it. you had been mine--every bit of you--then . . . At such moments. to that small category of things for which he would have bartered his                                                     . "Nothing eeps us apart. Gathering her to him. more li e hate--yes. ." Her whole body was moved by the sigh she drew. too. almost more to himself than to her. contrary to his nature. I've felt it. went through him. each of which wounded. "How can you say that?--And yet I thin I now what you mean. her own elemental weeping shoo her from head to foot. . no. to--I don't now what!" He had spo en in an even. . when he was separated from her. And. a part of you. It's li e a ind of rage that comes over one--Yes.

and still he had not come: her eyes were tired with staring down the street. and having found one. A glance at his face chec ed her. "Would you mind much if I as ed you not to come?" he said as she hesitated. and the nowledge of this overcame her disappointment. but she remained evasive: and since. had still to interview him again. glad to be relieved of the decision. "If you would rather I didn't. she returned to her place at the window. Her previous sense of remissness was still with her. and for a minute she did not now what to say. he could not hinder his thoughts from slipping forward to the coming evening. to be put out of mind or issed away." "It's all right. When at last he appeared. she tried to atone. When the cloc struc eight. and now. which had something disarming in it. he rose to go. towards the end of September. which. It was a fine night: there was no moon. and as ed her had she decided if she were coming to hear him play. a stretch of which was visible above the gardens. He was waiting anxiously for her answer: it was a matter of importance to him. for     "It's a fancy of mine. would suffice to put an end to every feeling. In saying goodnight. had moments of preoccupied silence. One evening. she saw that that he was carrying flowers. dearest--foolish. moist sill. the 'cellist had been ta en ill. at the sight of him. She was very lonely. no one wanted her. had set up a glad and violent beating. hampering her. and was grateful to her for ma ing things easy. rich in varying lights and shades." she hastened to respond. he. at the last moment. but a jump from where she was. he turned her face up. He wished to outdo himself in tender encouragement. to its normal course. nearly half-past six. it was not very far. I understand. It had been a warm autumn day. settled down again at once. Maurice had steeled himself against pleadings and despondency. he was barely inside the room before he told her that he could only stay for an hour." now--that I shall get on                                   . made her shiver. Louise watched for him at the window. ma ing her unfree. He had spent the greater part of the afternoon loo ing for a substitute. she loo ed down into the street. She had forgotten all about it. "No. but the stars glittered furiously in the in y-blue s y. he invariably brought them when he could not stay long with her. in spite of himself. Leaning her wrists on the cold. by being reasonable. and she had learned to dread seeing them in his hand. Here she might stand. I better if you're not there. at this forlorn post. It was on her direct lips to reply that she had not thought anything about it. He was to play his trio the following evening." When he had gone. The vastness of the night. Now it was late. She new what the flowers meant: in a spirit of candour. but it had never seemed more to Louise than a disturbing outside fact. too. of course not. the distance of s y and stars.soul. Her heart. to the pavement. In very truth. Maurice had mentioned more than once the date of his playing. to let him now the time at which Schwarz had appointed an extra rehearsal for the next day.

as though she could only thin with her muscles at a strain. however. which hovers behind the consciousness.new what the roses had been trying to tell her. Schils y had had a presentiment that things would go wrong if she remained inside. . the memory of a certain hour returned to her. In his gratitude. the hall was filled to the last place. when she felt a touch on her arm. and wantonly pulled them to pieces. and strove. on this night of all others? On the day she remembered. who was an intimate friend of his. they had been noc ed down and forgotten. they had been lavished over the room-one June evening. He . as Schils y wal ed down the platform. she felt as if something within her were trying to find vent in it. she was aware of the stir that ran through the audience. and laid them on the cushioned seat beside her. Why. with what was almost a physical effort. he had collected all the roses. and mounted again. subsided. oh why. she banged the window to. under the gallery. She struggled with it. until his turn came to play. the smell of the roses was too strong. the fragile leaves had yielded a scent. out of several hundred people. for one thing. and. In memory. the room was in shadow. two years ago. She pic ed them up. and stood at the bac . But it was not easy. artist fancy. And as if invisible hands had touched a spring in her brain. It had been the truth when she told him that she understood. thereby opening some secret place. she learned how. Then she went into the hall. and will not emerge. crushed and bruised. He. pure things--and more and more. and in the boyish exultation with which success filled him. had he needed to bring them to her. But there was something else at wor in her to-night. as one struggles with a forgotten melody. to project herself into that part of his life. or superstition--as that. had a cranny in his brain. for fear she should actually throw herself down. where such fancies lodged--such an eccentric. a single individual could distract and disturb. There was a special concert that night at the Conservatorium. She sat with her elbows on her nees. or whim. There. honestly. of unfreedom and desolation grew so hard to bear that.hours. Once more. reflected on what his words meant. leading themes in Beethoven's violin concerto. and a Russian. and they smiled at each other. he told her that he had been sent to as her to leave the hall. from the very heart of cool. which she could not understand. had he drawn his bow across the strings. They had the scent that only deep red roses have--one which seems to come from a distance.--And her feeling of error. She waited with him in the green-room. tenfold increased. and gave out a strong scent: Maurice had seldom brought her such beautiful roses. it seemed to hinder her imagination. her hands closed and pressed to her chee s. the scent of blood-red roses had been associated for her with one of the sweet. for the whole night. with a crash that resounded through the street. too! The little word had done it. just about to step on to the platform. the vision was painfully intense: on returning to                                             . bec oned her outside. While it lasted. something that swelled up. Red petals fell li e fla es of red snow. no one would either now or care. They were dar crimson. Now she new-. She went slowly bac to the sofa. And ever afterwards. Except for the light thrown by a small lamp. Afterwards. she went over what he had said. . but it had touched her strangely all the same: for it had let her see into an unsuspected corner of his nature. On the way she trod on the roses. of which she new nothing. and pressed her face to the seat of the sofa. returned with such force that she fell on her nees. Hardly. too. then. in understanding of the whim. On the floor beside her lay the roses.

more. And now."                                             .--Feel sha y? No? You ought to. and. IV. she buried her face in the cushions again. in each of which her craving for sensation had been stilled. Things had lost their familiar aspect. When. "You loo just as if you were posing for the John in a Rubens Crucifixion. In doing so. she raised her head. More. dead to the present. he had arrived too early. and more again! She was as hungry for these memories as a child for dainties. when he would come again. Putting her hands to her forehead. One plays all the better for it. life was always highly coloured. secure. Madeleine entered by the street-door. what she had never yet been: his own rival in fondness. she tried to force her thoughts bac to reality. words that were li e ointment and li e nives. For. in the ironical tone she now habitually used to him. you now. was no longer hateful to her. And as a beginning. of the love she was thus expending on him. In spite of his attempt to time himself. As he stood there. proud. she crossed the room. she stammered bro en words: "Maurice--my poor Maurice!" and issed the flowers. for his sa e. finally. his unceasing care of her. With a cry. She saw herself as she had then been.herself. The lamp burned steadily. for all she new. she touched the roses. Then. not a day had been empty or tedious. Anything--anything rather than this dead level of monotony on which she had fallen. With a gesture that was her real awa ening. feeling as if. She was starved for them.--Well. she rose from her nees. in the empty room. not one of which had hung heavy. she might. have been absent for days. Now. good luc to you! I'll hold my thumbs. she had once more lived right through the great experience of her life. he would be aware of her isses. words of love and of anger. Already she began to live for the following evening. unspea ably content. stretched out her arms to him. Towards seven o'cloc the following evening. She called to mind his tenderness. She was conscious of wishing to hurt herself. in some occult way. Then. With her lips on the cool buds. she implored his forgiveness for her unpremeditated desertion. "Is that you?" she as ed. and with each pressure of her lips to the roses. Forgotten words rang in her ears. and his predecessor on the programme had still to play two movements of a sonata by Beethoven. in a sudden revulsion of feeling. It was a satisfaction to her that fingers and chee s were pric ed by their thorns. stiffly. she relived the past happy hours of triumph and excitement. she was sensible of a great compassion for him. she was obliged to loo round and thin where she was. she caught them up and pressed them to her face. and there was neither pleasure nor pain that she had not tasted to the full. and held her hands to her ears. Maurice loitered about the vestibule of the Conservatorium. Even the suffering she had gone through. and put the fading roses in a pitcher of water. the dull room was just as she had left it. closing her eyes. only to sleep through as many as she could of the hours that separated them! She would be to him the next night.

and had stared at him in the same disconcerting manner--but where? when? In the few seconds that remained. and the frog's expressive leer. and bore Fraulein Prybows i off. a greasy. At his words. He let down the lid of the piano to the peg for chambermusic. As this showed no sign of ceasing. Throughout. and struggled to recall a name. rising from his scat. however. little fellow with a mop of touzled hair. Here. and stro ed the insides of his trouser-legs. His droll way of telling it was more amusing than the long-winded story. to turn the pages of the music. it had occurred to him that he might draw their attention to a passage in the VARIATIONS.He went along the passage to the little green-room. the other two young men were embarrassed. Then. with a long. Behind her was heard the applause of many hands. and he himself was more tic led by it than was the violinist. they were so deep in tal that he hesitated to interrupt. several friends burst into the room. NA." She seized his hand and clung to it. with oily blac hair and a pimpled face. with such malevolence                                                   . was relating an adventure he had had the night before. with protruding eyes. But when he caught them up. a face of that ind which. with Maurice at its head. a lan y German-American boy. with that air of inattention common to string-players. and the little procession. In the delay that ensued. And a restaurant evolved itself. he dismissed the idea. when the 'cellist. sitting by him. not very long ago. the stringplayers pic ed up their instruments. Passing by the organ. Maurice was just ready for the start. The 'cellist ran to fetch water. and the empty seats of the orchestra. Although before an audience for the first time in his life. a screen. it came to an end. the sonata by Beethoven ran its course. both tuned their instruments assiduously. felt so sure of this pupil's coolness that he yawned. as he went. which told him nothing--until his attention was arrested by a face almost directly beneath him. sped bac in desperate haste over all the li ely places where he might have seen it. a tall. Meanwhile. li e lines of globular fruits. mounted the steps to the platform. Polish girl. The 'cellist. "What's all this about? You did excellently. It was. Maurice loo ed round at the audience. who was restless. and loo ed away. "NA. and the performer. descended the steps. Schwarz gave the signal. He saw innumerable heads and faces. It had fixed them both. is never forgotten--a frog-li e face. And Schwarz. once seen. sallow. and flic ed the eys with his hand erchief. On seeing them go by. the girl burst into tears. at the heels of his string-players. he descended to the front of the platform. bird-li e nec . in the second row. NA!" he said soothingly. where two grand pianos stood side by side. Schwarz. round which this repulsive face had peered. his brain wor ed furiously. he thought he new the person to whom it belonged. he went to fetch another from the bac of the platform. round which was wound a piece of blac velvet. he noted that the hall was exceptionally well filled. For the flash of a second. however. he lowered the piano-chair. Maurice had never felt more composed. While the story-teller still smac ed his lips. with which he had not been satisfied at rehearsal that day. all turned expectantly towards him. His eye ranged indifferently over the occupants of the front seats--strange faces. Somewhere. a table in a secluded corner. this face had been before him. chrysanthemums and their acrid scent. discovered that the stand which had been placed for him was insecure. bade her return and bow her than s. who had come out of the hall by a lower door. and. almost as swiftly.

and. he was struc by the appearance of Schwarz's broad. He was only roused by the burst of applause that succeeded the final chords. As he struc the first notes of the ANDANTE WITH VARIATIONS. however. His fingers. He was. and were followed by the crisp gaiety of the MINUET. but. with which the trio closed--not till then did he grasp that the event to which he had loo ed forward for many wee s was behind him. fat hand. It was the signal to begin. however. He made for Maurice at once. Having failed. Schwarz shoo hands with him. he meditated absently on a sharp uplifting of this hand that occurred. in the disappointing. As he was nearing the street-door. he was not rightly awa e to what he was doing. Schwarz raised a decisive hand. he felt how tired he was. The green-room was deserted. his fingers hesitated and grew less sure. Now that it was over. eager as ever at the end of a concert to sha e off an imposed restraint. separated by a disturbing noise of hands. neither blundering nor forgetting. to thin about what he had to do. he also nodded. had risen while Maurice still played the final notes. was too much ta en up with his own witticisms beforehand. only a few stragglers remained. in the rounding of a turn. Both 'cellist and violinist had vanished on the instant. but he did not smile. and stood waiting to spea to him. however. as though he had wal ed for miles. The scene built itself up with inconceivable rapidity. With his music in his hand. According to custom. the hall was all but empty. but now. and he had persuaded Louise to go home. in a hurry. regularly. When at length he went down the passage. ineffectual scales in C major. he turned to Schwarz. which continued to seem as unreal to Maurice as everything else. the gas-jet had been screwed down to a peep. He had really hardly expected it. through over-care. this evening. all the same. The movements of the trio succeeded one another. the audience. as though the master were dissatisfied with the rhythm--the 'cellist's fault. a hope had lur ed in him that Krafft would perhaps afterwards ma e some sign--even Madeleine. His memory was now so alert that he could recall the man's two companions as well. None of his friends had come to say a word to him. but he new neither well enough to try to get at the truth. from the master's face. And while he was still absorbed by it. and his beginning to weigh each note as he played it. Only as the last notes of the PRESTISSIMO died away. and was at the bottom of the first page before he new it.that it had destroyed his pleasure. his manner was eager. his very legs were tired. as if it were the result of his previous inattention. the old: white-haired director had left his seat. went automatically through their wor . As. neither of them appeared. He slowly ascended the platform. every moment or two. no doubt: he had been inexact at rehearsal. he seemed to read a confirmation of his failure in their absence. and. his face bore the imprint of                                         . to learn what success he had had. he nerved himself for an effort. and he loitered for some time in the semi-dar ness. The lights above his head were reflected in the shining ebony of the piano. but the mind which should have controlled them was unable to concentrate itself: he heard himself play as though he were listening to some one else. unwilling to face the dispersing crowd. One or two acquaintances congratulated him in due form. Throughout the whole of the opening movement. Dove came out of the BUREAU. which crossed his range of vision to turn a leaf. and also that no one present new less of how it had passed off than he himself. the VARIATIONS ceased. he resolved to let things go as they would. and his thoughts wander at will. li e well-drilled soldiers. an odd uneasiness beset him. by this time. he obeyed unthin ingly. And thus the four divisions of the trio slipped past.

                                                            . "I say. his playing had been so little remar able that even Dove had been on the point of overloo ing it altogether. But his greeting had not its usual fervour. I'm off. without raising his head. "Never heard you play better. he had imagined himself doing: laid his head on her lap. li e all my wishes then. I have only to shut my eyes. "Yes. . "Did you notice. for a few minutes. Young Leumann is to play this very same trio next wee . Guest!" he cried." "Indeed?" said Maurice with a well-emphasised dryness. I was at the window trying to ma e them out." he murmured. too. "An odd coincidence. She smiled and humoured him. Especially the MENUETTO. Instantly. His tone nudged Dove's memory. "It was li e an evening in July. They sat down. and bought all they had. than goodness!" he said in reply. A little chap in nic erboc ers. instead of issing her. At last! she exulted to herself." "Well. Louise threw herself into his arms. neither spo e. Not nowing what answer to ma e to this. which seemed to crawl so slowly . She passed them bac wards and forwards. They were always my favourite flowers. Then. too. without stopping." he hastened to add. how full the air was of different scents to-night?" she as ed as her cool hands went to and fro. and himself placed her hands on his hair. she became uncertain. and I am full of the old extravagant longings--the childish impatience with time. who tried to ma e friends with you last summer? You li e roses. . don't you? Though not as much as I do. Once out of Dove's sight. As a child. and she tried to change the current of his thoughts. and. Some people sitting behind me were reminded of Rubinstein." said Maurice. But the smell of them ta es me bac --always. all congratulations. She did not quite now what she had been expecting. she led him to the sofa. her sense of having been repulsed. which was to bring me all I wanted. till that wonderful future. he shot away. you now--pupils of Rendel's. good-night. There were only a few bushes where I lived. he laid his face against her hair. Maurice. She put bac her head and loo ed at him. The pretty girl served me--do you remember the pretty girl with the yellow hair." "Tell me all about it. This afternoon I went to the little shop at the corner. I used to imagine what it would be li e to gather them for a whole day. Any slender hope he might have had was now crushed. and. At least it's over. and her loo was a question. yielded. But. it was too dry for them. even as he spo e. perhaps it had been something of the old. while still some way off.interesting news. He is said to have a glorious LEGATO--just the very thing for the VARIATIONS. of course. But the roses were too strong for them. "By the way. just dar red roses. he too off his hat and passed his hand over his forehead. pleasurable excitement that she had learnt to associate with an occasion li e the present. leaving his companion in some surprise. as you came along. for you see--or rather you have not seen--all the roses I have got for you--yes. he did what on the way there. this had to be postponed. even to stand still.

. he was strong enough to face the worst. Wood smouldering outside!--and all the country round is smo y with bush fires. A camelia is a foolish flower. While he                                   . Or wal ing home--those glorious nights--when some one was so silent ." she went on. Passion-flowers and periwin les--you will say they have no smell. . when I came. will you? However despondent I get about myself? For you are all I have. but it's not true. yes. And it is just the same with smells. . I never . Made to wither in one's dress . . "How good you are to me. Flat. the smell must remind one of pleasant things. li e a blind man's face--the chief thing is wanting. "Yes. For I was in a disagreeable mood--and still am. and out there it seemed as if the whole town were steeped in lilac. he loo ed up at her with a lover's eyes. or to be crushed. you might just have sent me away again. And violets? I never really cared for violets. hot. so did not see her face. There's music I can't listen to. I can't remember crying at all. between two men in blac coats. To-night. at this reminder of a past day of alternate rapture and despair. But you won't give me up just yet for all that. Maurice. He was afraid this soothing flow of words was going to cease. I have to put my hands to my ears. tell me some more--about violets. don't you. and ma e me thin of long.--But flowers give me my pleasantest memories. dearest! And I don't deserve it. "They are silly little flowers. It's strange. and I am a little girl again. a rush of grateful content overcame Maurice. Safe. or a day I would rather not have lived. . standing by a grave--my father's to which I was driven in a high buggy. or to a time of my life that I hated. great sprays and bunches of lilac-white and purple--you now. cloudless days. . Louise--in the whole world. so moody--do you remember?" At the peculiar veiled tone that had come into her voice. of course. . . how much association has to do with pleasure?--or pain. so different from the secured happiness of the present. for the first time since entering the room. Rotting leaves and the smell of moist earth. to-night was a failure--not a noisy. But lilac. Unless one could have them in such masses that they filled the room. I only smelt the earth--it was in the rainy season and there was water in the grave. and. which was shady and sometimes even damp. go on. open passionflowers--red or white--with purplish-fringed centres." He had laid his head on her lap again. in short dresses. and all because it ta es me bac to an unhappy hour. isn't it. "No matter what beautiful colours they have. I mean . it's no use calling it anything else. open one but all the same. with her arms round him. not till . . which seemed to have neither beginning nor end."I li e flowers best for their scents. and bro e off so abruptly that he moved. at the thought of this common memory that had built itself up for them round a flower's scent. have a honey-smell. for they grew along an old paling fence." She had entangled herself. even words I dread to hear anyone say. Yes. Mimosa in the room--and I can feel the sun beating down on deserted shafts and the stillness of the bush. . There are streets I never wal through. I may as well confess it to you. Some things affect me so strongly that they ma e me wretched. And little periwin les have a cool green smell. or even feeling sorry. because they are connected with some one I disli ed. But then. who will always be associated with lilac for me? Do you remember some of those evenings at the theatre." She hastened to recover herself. on the balcony between the acts? The gallery was so hot. and run away from it.

this outpouring. when his time came to an end. to find that he had done so.--And do you realise what it--what failure means for us. it was here more than a glimpse that she caught. of the foolish ambitions with which he had begun his studies in Leipzig. he let her see into his real self. They had never yet failed in their effect. Instinctively. as of easing his own mind. in a ind of unwilling surprise. "And why tal about it to-night? You are tired. however. what he said was so palpable. too. as well as of his present fear that. so undeniable. not so much. unli e the previous occasion. heard of their gradual subsidence. with her hands on his shoulders. and lie quite still. She heard now. who swell the majority. and she found herself listening. it became clear to her that she would have preferred to remain in ignorance of it. and made a clean breast of everything that troubled him. It was the first time she had interrupted him. by degrees. and are not destined to rise above the crowd. I thin I should have been a better chimney-sweep. he felt the need of spea ing--of spea ing out relentlessly all that was in him. and. when you had hoped with all your heart that you were something more. as he tal ed. having sta ed everything on it." "Oh. and then. for the first time. I've learnt to see that. you see. he would have nothing to show for it--and under the influence of what had just happened. without conviction. It was so necessary." she said again. And. she went over to him. And besides. She had sat and followed his restless movements with a loo of apprehension. for the crea ing of this board. He was distressingly fran with her. but wea ly. I wouldn't do that." But. she ceased to pass her hands over his hair. no. and his humble acceptance of his inferiority. She had not dreamed of his considering himself in another light. no.spo e. said all the consoling words she could thin of. It was one thing. that she could not understand his dragging the matter to the surface: she had never thought of him but as one of the many honest wor ers. the ice once bro en. and. But to-night                                                       . which of them would one care to trust? I believe in the end I shall go straight to Schwarz. with the idea of confessing it to her. "Oh. to ma e him forget. Things will seem different in the morning. but she could not attach the importance he did to his assumed want of success. this fear grew more vivid. he made clear to her. her face upturned. The real something that ma es the musician--even the genuinely musical outsider--is wanting in me. Maurice. and unpleasant enough at best. Shut your eyes again. nor was she able to subdue the feeling of distaste with which his doubtings inspired her. To put an end to such embarrassing confidences. and it was painful to her now. each time. Tonight. "Yes--failure. A certain board in the floor crea ed when he trod on it. He was very pale and very voluble." he repeated.--But even suppose I were mista en--who could tell me that I was? One's friends are only too glad to avoid giving a downright opinion. "It's no good beating about the bush. But what if. She was sorry for him. she had never felt curious about the side of his nature which was not the lover's side. he found it impossible to eep still. though I don't now in the least what it is. Louise loo ed at him. and get him to tell me what he thin s of me--whether I'm ma ing a fool of myself or not. to have to find yourself to rights as a mediocrity. and put more emphasis than before on the word. And now. again." Louise said quic ly. you should discover that you had mista en your calling altogether? "To-night. Louise?" "Oh. vaguely trying to ward off what she foresaw was coming." she then protested. he paced the room. too.

dear. with a slight impatience. "Besides. a ind of barrier between ushasn't there? How often I've tried to find out what it is! Well. it's impossible not to worry. Maurice! Something will turn up." "That's a woman's way of loo ing at things. Maurice. Of course. it was to help to decide the future--that hideously uncertain future of ours! I believe now." he said. But I feel to-night that if I could have been what I once hoped to be--no. "Yes. however. I don't care whether I ever come to anything or not. you would care for me--yes. Instead. at least. and to turn them over. and one of them means nothing to you. often enough. I now--not that I really mean to ta e myself too seriously. to accuse her of want of love. that's it!--as you can't possibly care now. I should rather have been a success--we all would!--but caring for you has swallowed up the ridiculous notions I once had. "You brood too much. or whatever you li e to call it. Maurice . though I've never spo en of it till to-night. But. "What wise-sounding words! And I'm in the wrong. When she spo e. too. as though she were on her guard against being touched too deeply. in this case. I care for--not what you can or can't do. Let things go more. and they'll carry you with them. and touched her chee with his hand. I've felt it." "It's unhealthy always to be loo ing into yourself. But if I'd been able to accomplish what I once intended--to ma e a name for myself. . Only one side of me really matters to you. or fate . then began anew. WHAT is to become of us?" "If that's all. too." He too her hands. and I may just as well ma e a clean breast of it. as he continued to spea . but all my life I have been forced to worry about things. You would have to. What happened this evening seems a trifle to you." Her first impulsive denial died on her lips. that's not all. and you exaggerate things.--But it's a bad habit. It's not only that the future is every bit as shadowy to-night as it has always been: I haven't advanced it by an inch. he was impelled." He was conscious of spea ing somewhat un indly. for him to be influenced by them. But I had made a ind of touchstone of it." he answered. I'm sure it will. For your sa e--it's you I torment myself about. . . . as usual. If I were not such an out-and-out mediocrity. how shall I put it? You now." But these words added fuel to his despondency. and she moved away. or something of that sort--then it would all have been different. if I had really been able to achieve something. I now.too much was at wor in Maurice. He issed her. of smoothing things over. and avoided her eyes. "For you. "It's you yourself. and no doubt would to every one else. I'm in two parts. that's just it. as far as I'm concerned. "That has nothing whatever to do with it. you wouldn't be able to help yourself. to-night I seem to now. dear. it was in a cool voice. which she did not try to conceal. by an unconquerable impulse. . to disclose himself still further. from the very beginning there has been something wrong. . and faith in luc . she seemed to feel in his words an intention to wound her. I could                                                     . but he was hurt by her lac of sympathy. What if every one too himself so seriously?--and tal ed of failure because on a single occasion he didn't do himself justice?" "It's more than that with me. Have a little patience. "There's something else." she said. or.

she let her arms hang wea ly at her sides. was he?--must always--HAS always stood between us. It would never have occurred to him. it seemed as if he had only been waiting for her to say them. Was it mere exaggeration. "tell me the truth about it all. or luc in everything he touched--was it just report. with . But does that. till her nerves suddenly rebelled at the needless irritation." Louise did not reply: she had a moment of genuine despondency. and by her silence. with a ray of hope. "Let me ma e another confession. "Oh. let them rest. and be happy? No. I've suffered under it from the first day. a long white figure. because I now you must be forced--and not to-night only. . . traits of mind with which she could not possibly sympathise? Standing. you now who I mean. Her face lost its tired expression." she said. collapsed and shrivelled up. Do you now why to-night is doubly hard to bear? It's because--yes. for the morbid self-probing in which he was indulging made her see him with other eyes. . She still stood motionless beside the piano. . and seemed to linger in the air. To-night it came over me li e a flash that it was he--that he . but in every jot of my outside life as well. in a tone she had never before used to him. Louise.--And do you thin I can realise that. beside the piano. "You are brea ing your word. . always in the same strain. Admit all I've been saying. made it impossible for you to care for anyone who wasn't made of the same stuff as he was. "Or tell me.have forced you to be interested in every single thing I did--not only in the me that loves you. .                                             . while I have rac ed my brains to discover what it was. loving you as I do. "Nor am I in a mood to-night to ma e myself any illusions. to torment you and ma e you suffer for his own failure? For the very good reason that he never was a failure. She did not try to reason with him again. the whole story of their relations would be different. "You promised me once. "There!--listen!--you yourself admit it. she let him go on and on. li e every one else. but often--to compare me what I am and what I can do--with . . . would it. or even to comfort him. "Why try to destroy such happiness as we have? Can you never be content?" From the way in which he seized upon these words. and act as if they did not exist? It was as clear as day: if he were different. or was he really worth so much more than all the rest of us? Of course he could play--I now that--but so can many a fool. ma e it any the easier for me?" As the gist of what he was trying to say was borne in upon her. WHY must you be li e this to-night?" she bro e in on him. The remembrance of what he was--he was never doubtful of himself. why. The staunch tenderness she had been resolved to feel for him this evening. "Such happiness as we have!" he repeated. too. too. could I not have been different?--more worthy of you. what was the use of tal ing about it. Oh. But all the other part of it--his incredible talent. and spea ing rapidly.? Listen to me. Louise winced. Oh." he went on." he said lowering his voice. Louise did not brea the pause that followed." "I'm not blind. the past should never be mentioned between us. But as he could not change his nature. for once. I haven't the least doubt what a sorry figure I must cut beside him!" The unhappy words came out slowly. and of turning out to her gaze. It's inevitable--the comparison must be thrust on you every day of your life. assented to what he said. as though she had not spo en. he spoiled you utterly for anyone else." Maurice cried abruptly. and grew hard. Why couldn't I. do you thin . What he said belonged to that category of things which are too true to be put into words: why could not he. be one of those favoured mortals .

." Maurice was hurt to the quic . by all means!--But what I want to now. But with him. . as I did. "Louise!" he cried violently. and the other unhappy wretch remains an outsider his whole life long." "He was a genius. "Why is a woman so impossible? Does nothing matter to her but tangible success? Do care and consideration carry no weight? Even matched against the blac guardly egoism of what you call genius?--Or will you tell me that he considered you? Didn't he treat you from beginning to end li e the scoundrel he was?" She raised hostile eyes. "Now I now your real opinion of me! Till now you have been considerate enough to hide it. You're only aghast at what you thin my littleness. God nows I don't! I hate him--you now I do!" She had clapped both hands to her face. . It would give me pleasure to now that he. You didn't now him as . I don't . but with him. too? Do you thin it gives me a higher opinion of you. . for he has made it impossible for you--the woman I love--to love me wholly in return. I can bear to hear your real opinion of me." He could not face her amazement. Of all I've gone through. had only been a dabbling amateur--the victim of a pitiable wish to be what he hadn't the talent for. she was able to spea as quietly as before." she said in a small. "He was a genius! Yes. and don't want to now. He didn't now what it meant to be envious of anyone. you are right." she answered. . and her voice warned him once more that he was trespassing on ground to which he had no right. For I?--what am I? A miserable bungler. I hate him for the way he was able to absorb you. To one all the talents and all your love." he cried a moment later. "You care for him still!" She started. to hear you tal li e that about some one I once cared for? How can I find it anything but ungenerous?--Yes. and this was all Maurice heard. why one should be given so much and the other so little. I could wish with all my heart that he had been no better than I am. A frenzied fear seized him. you had no difficulty in understanding him. Loo !--at this very moment. too.--Oh. a wretched dilettant--or have you another word for it? Oh. you can't--you WON'T understand. not with me. icy voice. He was as different from you as day from night. never mind--don't be afraid to say it!--I'm not sensitive tonight.or was it really something else?--Tell me. he WAS different--in every way. what did I tell you? Your very words imply a comparison as you say them. and held them there. "You have no right to say that. When you spea in that tone about him. for it could not possibly be lower than my own. "You are not able to judge him. "I don't .--Of course." he went on. as if to ward off a blow. you are siding. he stared at the yellow globe of the lamp till his eyes smarted. "but I can't help it. if I could only understand you!" He moved to and fro in his agitation. But he was too excited to ta e the warning. which seemed to put him at an infinite distance from her. "It no doubt seems despicable to you. All my struggling and striving counts for nothing. very coldly and distinctly. and raised her arms. "But do you want to ma e me hate you. . "A genius!" he echoed. you now nothing. "is. When she loo ed up again." With the last words a deeper note came into her voice. Let us get at the truth for once. He had the power over you. But to-night I have heard                                             . He's my worst enemy. it was different.

You seem to enjoy finding out things you can feel hurt by.                                       . You want everything to belong to you. Do you than me for it? No. and Maurice had a moment of bewilderment: there. tell me to do it!" Still she did not move. what does it mean? It means you don't want to now it. sat the woman who was the centre of his life. and with all appearance of believing it. the last words stung him most. how ungenerous you are! It's not the first time you've goaded me into saying something. that the best part of me had belonged to some one else. You despise me!" "Well. and with his right hand grasped the table. she's what she is because