himself to it, as to the scar left by a
wound.

He did not, of course, believe what Madeleine, with her infernal
frankness, had told him; but the knowledge that such a report was
abroad, depressed him unspeakably: it took colour from the sky and
light from the sun. Sometimes in these days, as he sat at his piano, he
had a sudden fit of discouragement, which made it seem not worth while
to continue playing. It was unthinkable that she could be aware how
busy scandal was with her name, and how her careless acts were spied on
and misrepresented; and he turned over in his mind ways and means by
which she might be induced to take more thought for herself in future.

He did not believe it; but hours of distracting uncertainty came, none
the less, when small things which his memory had stored up made him go
so far as to ask himself, what if it should be true?--what then? But he
had not courage enough to face an answer; he put the possibility away
from him, in the extreme background of his mind, refused to let his
brain piece its observations together. The mere suspicion was a
blasphemy, a blasphemy against her dignified reserve, against her sweet
pale face, her supreme disregard of those about her. Not thus would
guilt have shown itself.

Schilsky, who was the origin of all the evil, he made wide circuits to
avoid. He thought of him, at this time, with what he believed to be a
feeling of purely personal antipathy. In his most downcast moments, he
had swift and foolish visions publicly executing vengeance on him; but
if, a moment later, he saw the violinist's red hair or big hat before
him in the street, he turned aside as though the other had been
plague-struck. Once, however, when he was going up the steps of the
Conservatorium, and Schilsky, in leaping down, pushed carelessly
against him, he returned the knock so rudely and swore with such
downrightness that, in spite of his hurry, Schilsky stopped and fixed
him, and with equal vehemence damned him for a fool of an Englishman.

His despondency spread like a weed. A furious impatience overcame him,
too, at the thought of the innumerable hours he would be forced to
spend at the piano, day in, day out, for months to come, before the
result could be compared with the achievements even of many a
fellow-student. As the private lessons Schwarz gave were too expensive
for him, he decided, as a compromise, to take a course of extra lessons
with Furst, who prepared pupils for the