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Rentgen sourly reflected--despite epigrams, women never vary. For
him her sentiment was suburban. It strangled poetry. But he said
nothing, though she imagined he looked depressed; nor did he open his
mouth as the carriage traversed avenues of processional poplars before
arriving at her door. She turned to him imploringly:--
"You must come with me. I shall never be able to go in alone, without an
excuse. Don't--don't repeat to Richard what you said to me, in joke, I
am sure, about his music. Heavens! What will my husband think?" There
was despair in her voice, but hopefulness in her gait and gesture, when
they reached the ill-lighted hall.
A night-lamp stood on the composer's study table. The piano was open. He
sat at the keyboard, though not playing, as they hurriedly entered the
room.
"You poor fellow! You look worn out. Did you think we had run away from
you? Did you get the wires, the telephone messages? Oh, why did you keep
us expecting you, Richard! We have had a wonderful time and missed you
so much! Such a talk with Rentgen! And all about _you_.


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