--E. H." Fiorsen drew smoke
deep down into his lungs, expelled it slowly, and went to the piano. He
opened it and began to play, staring vacantly before him, the cigarette
burned nearly to his lips. He went on, scarcely knowing what he played.
At last he stopped, and sat dejected. A great artist? Often, nowadays,
he did not care if he never touched a violin again. Tired of standing
up before a sea of dull faces, seeing the blockheads knock their
silly hands one against the other! Sick of the sameness of it all!
Besides--besides, were his powers beginning to fail? What was happening
to him of late?
He got up, went into the dining-room, and drank some brandy. Gyp could
not bear his drinking. Well, she shouldn't be out so much--taking
music-lessons. Music-lessons! Nearly three o'clock. If he went for once
and saw what she really did--Went, and offered her his escort home! An
attention. It might please her. Better, anyway, than waiting here until
she chose to come in with her face all closed up. He drank a little more
brandy--ever so little--took his hat and went. Not far to walk, but
the sun was hot, and he reached the house feeling rather dizzy. A
maid-servant opened the door to him.
"I am Mr. Fiorsen. Mrs. Fiorsen here?"
"Yes, sir; will you wait?"
Why did she look at him like that? Ugly girl! How hateful ugly people
were! When she was gone, he reopened the door of the waiting-room, and
listened.
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