it, except
coming. And now, do you mind going away? I want to put in a couple of
hours before lunch. You know what to practise till Tuesday, don't you?"

That was the first Sunday evening that Michael had spent with his
friends; after that, up till this present date in November, he had not
missed a single one of those gatherings. They consisted almost entirely
of men, and of the men there were many types, and many ages. Actors and
artists, musicians and authors were indiscriminately mingled; it was the
strangest conglomeration of diverse interests. But one interest, so it
seemed to Michael, bound them all together; they were all doing in their
different lives the things they most delighted in doing. There was the
key that unlocked all the locks--namely, the enjoyment that inspired
their work. The freemasonry of art and the freemasonry of the eager mind
that looks out without verdict, but with only expectation and delight in
experiment, passed like an open secret among them, secret because none
spoke of it, open because it was so transparently obvious. And since
this was so, every member of that heterogeneous community had a respect
for his companions; the fact that they were there together showed that
they had all passed this initiation, and knew what for them life meant.

Very soon after dinner all sitting accommodation, other than the floor,
was occupied; but then the floor held the later comers, and the
smoke from many cigarettes and the babble of many voices made a
constantly-ascending incense before the altar dedicated to the gods that
inspire all enjoyable endeavour. Then Sylvia sang, and both those who
cared to hear exquisite singing and those who did not were alike silent,
for this was a prayer to the gods they all worshipped; and Falbe played,
and there was a quartet of strings.

After that less serious affairs held the rooms; an eminent actor was
pleased to parody another eminent actor who was also present. This led
to a scene in which each caricatured the other, and a French poet did
gymnastic feats on the floor and upset a tray of soda-water, and a
German conductor fluffed out his hair and died like Marguerite. And when
in the earlier hours of the morning part of the guests had gone away,
and part were broiling ham in the kitchen, Sylvia sang again, quite
seriously, and Michael, in Hermann's absence, volunteered to play her
accompaniment for her. She stood behind him, and by a finger on his
shoulder direc