He came down from Ischl on the earliest train, and
some nights he stopped at the hotel near his new friends. After a few
visits he saw little of the father and uncle, and he was not sorry--they
were old bores with their archaic anecdotes of dead pianists. Two
maniacs on the subject of music, Davos wished them to the devil after he
had known them twenty-four hours. His passion had reached the acute key.
He could not eat or drink in normal fashion, and no sooner had he left
the girl than the sky became sombre, his pulse weakened, and he longed
to return to her side to tell her something he had forgotten. He did
this several times, and hesitated in his speech, reddened, and left her,
stumbling over the grass like a lame man. Never such a crazy wooer,
never a calmer maiden. She looked unutterable sentiment, but spoke it
not.
When he teased her about her music, she became a statue. She was too
timid to play before artists; her only master had been her father. Once
more he had heard the piano as he returned unexpectedly, and almost
caught her; he saw her at the instrument, but some instinct must have
warned her that she was being spied upon.
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