With flexible wrists he swung the
felt-covered mallets that brought up such resounding tones; at times
his long, apelike arms would reach far asunder and, rolling his eyes, he
touched the extremes of his _cymbalom_; then he described furious
arpeggios, punctuated with a shrill tattoo. And the crazy music defiled
by in a struggling squad of chords; but Arpad Vihary never lifted his
eyes from Lora Crowne....
The vibration ceased. Its withdrawal left the ear-drums buzzing with a
minute, painful sensation, like that of moisture rapidly evaporating
upon the naked skin. A battalion of tongues began to chatter as the
red-faced waiters rushed between the tables, taking orders. It was after
eleven o'clock, and through the swinging doors passed a throng of motley
people, fanning, gossiping, bickering--all eager and thirsty. Clarence
Steyle pointed out the celebrities with conscious delight. Over
yonder--that man with the mixed gray hair--was a composer who came every
night for inspiration,--musical and otherwise, Clarence added, with a
laugh. And there was the young and well-known decadent playwright who
wore strangling high collars and transposed all his plays from French
sources; he lisped and was proud of his ability to dramatize the latest
mental disease.
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