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_Nicht wahr_,
Rentgen? He says you are the only man in the world with a musical
future. Isn't that so, Rentgen? Didn't you say that Richard was the only
man in whom you took any interest? Say what you said to me! I _dare_
you!"
The musician, aroused by this wordy assault, looked from one to the
other with his heavy eyes, the eyes of an owl rudely disturbed. Alixe
almost danced her excitement. She hummed shrilly and grasped Van Kuyp's
arm in the gayest rebounding humour.
"Why don't you speak, Maestro?"
"I didn't join you because I was too busy at my score. Listen, children!
I have sketched the beginning of The Shadowy Horses. You remember the
Yeats poem, Rentgen? Listen!"
Furiously he attacked the instrument, from which escaped accents of
veritable torture; a delirium of tone followed, meagre melodies fighting
for existence in the boiling madness of it all; it was the parody of a
parody, the music of yesterday masquerading as the music of to-morrow.
Alixe nervously watched the critic. He stood at the end of the piano and
morosely fumbled his beard.


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