ct. He had no wish to make her
unhappy over it. And so, when he saw her again, he did his best to make
her forget how disagreeable he had been.

But the desire to know remained, became a morbid curiosity. If this
were satisfied, he believed it would make things easier for both of
them. But he was infinitely cautious. Sometimes, without a word, he
took her face between his hands and looked into her eyes, as if to read
in them an answer to the questions he was afraid to put--looked right
into the depth of her eyes, where the pupils swam in an oval of bluish
white, overhung by lids which were finely creased in their folds, and
netted with tiny veins. But he said not a word, and the eyes remained
unfathomable, as they had always been.

Meanwhile, he did what he could to set his life on a solid basis again.
But he was unable to arouse in himself a very vital interest in his
work; some prompter-nerve in him seemed to have been injured. And
often, he was overcome by the feeling that this perpetual preoccupation
with music was only a trifling with existence, an excuse for not facing
the facts of life. He would sometimes rather have been a labourer, worn
out with physical toil. He was much alone, too; when he was not with
Louise, he was given over to his own thoughts, and, day by day,
fostered by the long, empty hours of practice, these moved more and
more steadily in the one direction. The craving for a knowledge of the
facts, for certainty in any form--this became a reason for, a plea in
extenuation of, what he felt escaping him.

Louise did not help him; she assented to what he did without comment,
half sorry for him in what seemed to her his wilful blindness, half
disdainful. But she, too, made a discovery in these tame, flat days,
and this was, that it was one thing to say to herself: it is over and
done with, and another to make the assertion a fact. Energy for the
effort was lacking in her; for the short, sharp stroke, which with her
meant action, was invariably born of intense happiness or unhappiness.
Now, as the days went by, she asked herself why she should do it. It
was so much easier to let things slide, until something happened of
itself, either to make the break, or to fill up the still greater
emptiness in her life which a break would cause. And if he were content
with what she could give him, well and good; she made no attempt to
deceive him. And it seemed to her that he was content, though in a
somewhat preo