South German town; but it was rather as a composer that his
name had begun to burn on people's tongues. His new symphonic poem,
UBER DIE LETZTEN DINGE, had drawn down on his head that mixture of
extravagant laudation and abusive derision which constitutes fame.

"Take a look at his wife, if she's there," said one American to
another, who was standing beside him. "She studied here same time he
did, and is said to have been very handsome. An English chap shot
himself on her account."

"You don't say!" drawled his companion. "It's a queer thing, how common
suicide's getting to be. You can't pick up a noospaper, nowadays,
without finding some fool or other has blown his brains out."

"Look out!--here they come."

Behind the thick glass doors, Schilsky became visible. He was talking
volubly to a Jewish-looking stranger in a fur-lined coat. His hat was
pushed far back on his forehead; his face was flushed with elation;
and, consciously unconscious of the waiting crowd, he gesticulated as
he walked, throwing out the palms of his loosely dangling hands, and
emphasising his words with restless movements of the head. He was
respectfully greeted by those who had known him. A minute or two later
came Louise. At her side was a pianist with whom Schilsky had given a
concert earlier in the week--a shabbily dressed young man, with a world
of enthusiasm in his candid blue eyes. He, too, was talking with
animation. But Louise had no attention for anyone but her husband.

"Well, not my taste ... I must confess," laughed the man who had been
severe on suicide. "Fine eyes, if you like--but give me something
fresher."

She was wearing a long cloak. The door, in swinging to, caught an end
of this, and hindered her progress. Both she and her companion stooped
to free it; their hands met; and the bystanders saw the young man
colour darkly over face and neck.

The others had got into one of the droschkes that waited in line beside
the building. The dark stranger put an impatient head out of the
window. The two behind quickened their steps; the young man helped
Louise in, mounted himself, and slammed the door.

The driver gathered up the reins, cracked his whip, and the big-bodied
droschke went swerving round the corner, clattering gutturally on the
cobbled stone pavement.

The group of loiterers at the door dispersed.

End of Project Gutenberg's Maurice Guest, by Henry Handel Richardson

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUT