you
have a feeling of horror when you think? Don't you shudder when you
reflect on that caricature known as the heart, or the soul, or whatever
it may be called?"

"I don't understand you, Daniel," said Eleanore. She would never have
considered it possible that he would look with disfavour on her
contrition and the decision that had sprung from it. Then it had not
after all been the flash of a solitary second? Had she not hoped and
expected to hear a self-accusation from him that would make her forget
all and forgive herself? Where was she? In what world or age was she
living?

"Do you believe that I merely wanted to enjoy a diverting and momentary
side-step?" Daniel continued, measuring her with his eyes from head to
foot. "Do you believe that it is possible to jest with the most sacred
laws of nature? You have had a good schooling, I must say; you do your
teachers honour. Go! I don't need you. Go to Paris, and let me
degenerate!"

He stepped to the door. Then he turned, and took the lamp, which she had
removed from the holder when she lighted it. Holding the lamp in his
right hand, he walked close up to her. Her eyes closed involuntarily.
"I simply wanted to see whether it was really you," he said with
passionate contempt. "Yes, it is you," he said scornfully, "it is you."
With that he placed the lamp on the table.

"I don't understand you, Daniel," she said softly. She looked around for
some object to rest her eyes on.

"So I see. Good night."

"Daniel!"

But he had already gone. The hall door closed with a bang. The house
sang with solitude.

The green threadbare sofa, the old, old smoke stains on the whitewashed
ceiling, the five rickety chairs that reminded her of so many decrepit
old men, the mirror with the gilded angel of stucco at the top--all
these things were so tiring, so irksome, so annoying: they were like
underbrush in the forest.

Little brother! Little brother!

IV

Three evenings of the week were devoted to opera, the others to drama.

The first Kapellmeister was a middle-aged man whose curly hair made him
the idol of all flappers. He was lazy, uncultivated, and his name was
Lebrecht.

The director was an old stager who referred to the public about as a
disrespectful footman refers to his lord. At Daniel's suggestions for
improving the repertory, he generally shrugged his shoulders. The operas
in which he had the greatest confidence as drawing car