or will you come
through to my room in the Opera House, where we can wait and smoke
quietly until the clamour is past?"

"Anywhere, Ritter, only to get away from that horrible noise!" The
Musician covered his ears with his hands and shuddered: "That is the
worst of being an artist--there is no peace, no privacy! The people
consider one a music-box to wind up at their pleasure! A pest on it
all!"

The two men quickened their footsteps, hurrying down the long corridor,
and presently a door shut behind them.

"There--thank heaven!" cried Ritter, "Around to the left now, Velasco,
and then at the top of the stairs is my den. Let me go first and open
the door."

The room was a small one, half filled with the bulk of a grand piano.
About the walls ran shelf after shelf of music; opera scores and
presentation copies in manuscript. A bust of Wagner stood in the
corner, and on the wall behind the pianoforte was a large painting in
sepia, dim, with strong lights and shadows.

The window was open, and below it lay the street, still in the
darkness; above, the heavens were clear and the stars were shining.
Ritter pulled forward an arm-chair and motioned the Musician towards it:

"Sit down, Velasco. Will you have a pipe, or cigar? You look
exhausted, man! This fasting before is too much for you; you are pale
as death. Shall I send out the watchman for food, or shall we wait and
go to the Keller together?"

Velasco nodded and sank back in the chair, covering his eyes with his
hand:

"Is it usual for musicians to go mad?" he said.

"Heavens!" exclaimed the Kapellmeister, "What are you talking about?
Usual? Of course not! Some do. What is the matter with you, Velasco?
You are overwrought to-night."

"No," he said, "No. When you hear themes in your head, and rhythms
throbbing in your pulses--is that a sign?"

"Behuete! We all have that. After an opera my head goes round like a
buzz-saw, and the motives spring about inside like demons. If that is
all, Velasco, you are not mad. Take a cigarette."

"Thank you, Ritter. Tell me--when you conduct, is it as if force and
power were going from you, oozing away with the music; and you were in
a trance and someone else were wielding the baton, interpreting,
playing on the instruments, not yourself?"

The Kapellmeister shook his head grimly: "Sometimes, Velasco, but not
often; we are not all like you. That is Genius speaking through you."

"Afterwards," contin