ncome. They were plentiful enough: Avery Hill supported
herself entirely by them, and Furst kept his family. Of course, though,
this was due to Schwarz: his influence was a key to all doors. Both of
these were favourite pupils; while a melancholy fact, which had to be
faced, was, that he did not stand well with Schwarz. Somehow, they had
never taken to each other: he, perhaps, had had too open an eye for the
master's foibles, and Schwarz had no doubt been aware, from the first,
of his pupil's fatally divided interests. The crown had probably been
set by his ill-considered flight in July. If he wished ultimately to
achieve something, the interest he had forfeited must be regained, cost
what it might. He would work, in these coming months, as never before.
Could he make a brilliant, even a wholly respectable job of the trio he
was to play, it would go far towards reinstating him in Schwarz's good
graces: and he might then venture to approach the master with a request
for assistance. This was the first piece of work that lay to his hand,
and he would do it with all his might. After that, the rest.

There was no time to lose. A mild despair overcame him at the thought
of the intricate sonata, the long, mazy concerto by Hummel, which had
formed his holiday task. In exactly a fortnight from this date, the
vacation came to an end, and, as yet, he did not know a note of them.
Through the motionless heat of the paved streets, he went home, and
turning Frau Krause out of his room, sat down at the piano to scales
and exercises. Not until he felt suppleness and strength coming back to
his fingers, did he allow his thoughts to wander. Then, however, they
leapt to Louise; after this break in his consciousness, he seemed to
have been absent from her for days.

The sun was full on her windows; curtains and blinds were drawn against
it. While he hesitated, still dazzled by the glare of the streets, she
sprang to meet him, laying both hands on his shoulders.

"At last!"

He blinked, and laughed, and held her at arm's length. "At last?--Why,
what does that mean?"

"That I have been waiting for you, and hoping you would come--for
hours."

"But, dearest, I'm too early as it is. It's not six o'clock."

"Yes, I know. But I was so sure you would come sooner,--that you
wouldn't be able to stay away! Oh, the afternoon has been endless; and
the heat was suffocating. I couldn't dress, and I haven't unpacked a
thing."

Now he saw that she