ht
at an orchestral concert in Queen's Hall.

Isaacson was a little late in keeping this engagement. He came in
quickly and softly between two movements of Tschaikowsky's "Pathetic
Symphony," found Nigel in his stall, and, with a word, sat down beside
him. The conductor raised his baton. The next movement began.

In the music there was a throbbing like the throbbing of a heart, that
persisted and persisted with a beautiful yet terrible monotony. Often
Isaacson had listened to this symphony, been overwhelmed by the two
effects of this monotony, an effect of loveliness and an effect of
terror that were inextricably combined. To-night, either because he was
very tired or for some other reason, the mystery of the sadness of this
music, which floats through all its triumph, appealed to him more than
usual, and in a strangely poignant way. The monotonous pulsation was
like the pulse of life, that life in which he and the man beside him
were for a time involved, from which presently they would be released,
whether with or against their wills. The pulse of life! Suddenly from
the general his mind passed to the particular. He thought of a woman's
pulse, strong, regular, inexorable. He seemed to feel it beneath his
fingers, the pulse of Mrs. Chepstow. And he knew that he had thought of
her because Nigel Armine was thinking of her, that he connected her with
this music because Nigel was doing the same. This secretly irritated
Isaacson. He strove to detach his mind from this thought of Mrs.
Chepstow. But his effort was in vain. Her pulse was beneath his fingers,
and with every stroke of it he felt more keenly the mystery and cruelty
of life. When the movement was finished, he did not speak a word. Nor
did he look at Nigel. Even when the last note of the symphony seemed to
fade and fall downwards into an abyss of misery and blackness, he did
not speak or move. He felt crushed and overwhelmed, like one beaten and
bruised.

"Isaacson!"

"Yes?"

He turned a little in his seat.

"Grand music! But it's all wrong."

"Why?"

"Wrong in its lesson."

The artist in Isaacson could not conceal a shudder.

"I don't look for a lesson; I don't want a lesson in it."

"But the composer forces it on one--a lesson of despair. Give it all up!
No use to make your effort. The Immanent Will broods over you. You must
go down in the end. That music is a great lie. It's splendid, it's
superb, but it's a lie."

"Shall we go out? We've got ten