ve him? He wanted to seize hold of her hand,
question her, then he heard another voice:

"Wolfgang, are you asleep?"

Kate had laid her hand lightly on his hands, which were folded on
his knees. "I suppose I was a long time up there? You have felt
bored?"

"Oh no, no." He said it enthusiastically.

They went out of the cathedral together, whilst the organ sounded
behind them until they reached the market-place. Kate was in ecstasies
about the view she had had, so did not notice the mysterious radiance
in Wolfgang's eyes. He was quiet, and seemed to agree to
everything.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

His manner began to cause his mother some uneasiness. What would
have made her happy before--oh, how she had longed for a more docile
child in bygone days!--saddened her now. Was he, after all, worse than
they had any idea of?

They had now reached the coast, had got to Sestri. Those were the
same stone pines under which she had sat and painted as a younger woman
eighteen years ago. But another hotel had come into existence since
then, quite a German hotel, German landlord, German waiters, German
food, German society, all the comfort the Germans like. Kate had wanted
to live a retired life, to devote herself to Wolfgang; but now
she felt she needed a chat with this one or that one at times,
for even if she and Wolfgang were together, she felt alone all the
same. What was he thinking of? His brow and his eyes showed that
he was thinking of something, but he did not express his thoughts. Was
he low-spirited--bright? Happy--sad? Were there many things he repented
of and did he ponder over them, or did he feel bored here? She did not
know.

He kept away from everybody else with a certain obstinacy. It was in
vain that Kate encouraged him to play tennis with young girls who were
on the look-out for a partner; if he did not overdo it he might
certainly try to play. He was also invited to go out sailing, but he
did not seem to care for that sport any longer.

Wolfgang lay right out on the mole for the most part, against the
rocky point of which the blue sea flings itself restlessly until it is
a mass of white foam, and looked across at the coast near San Remo
swimming in a ruddy violet vapour or back at the naked heights of the
Apennines, in whose semi-circle the white and red houses of Sestri
nestle.

When the fishing boats glided into the harbour with slack
sails like weary birds, he