nor demanded it.  One could study the smile on the lip of one of these neighbors, even the tear in her eye, with one’s own face unmoved, an answer of sympathy impossible, not required.  Nevertheless, the music had stirred, had excited; and the warmth it had awakened was often transferred to the man who had kindled it.  The true lovers of music could not express their joy and were silent, while these others surrounded Arnold with their flatteries and adoration.

He was soon wearied of this.

“I am going to America, to a new world,” he said to his friend; “there must be some variety there.”

“Perhaps so,” said Carl,—­“something new, something that is neither man nor woman, since they cannot satisfy you.  Still I fancy you will find nothing higher than men and women.”

“A new land must develop men and women in a new way,” answered Arnold.

“If you would only look at things in my microscopic way,” said Carl, “and examine into one man or one woman, you would not need all this travelling.  But I will go as far as New York with you.”

* * * * *

At New York the name of the musician had already awakened the same excitement as in other places; the concert-room was crowded; there was the same rush for places; the prices paid for the tickets seemed here even more fabulous.  Arnold was more of a lion than ever.  His life was filled with receptions, dinners, and evening parties, or with parlor and evening concerts.  His dreamy, poetic face, his distant, abstracted manner, proved as fascinating as his music.

Carl tired of the whirl, and the adoration, of which he had his share.

“I shall go back to Germany,” he said.  “I shall go to my Rosa, and leave you your world.”

“I am tired of my world.  I shall go to the Far West,” said Arnold, when Carl left him.

One day he went to a matinee at one of the finest and most fashionable houses in the place.  There were beautiful women elegantly dressed, very exquisite men walking up and down the magnificently furnished drawing-rooms.  The air was subdued, the voices were low, the wit was quiet, the motion was full of repose, the repose breathed grace.  Arnold seated himself at the Steinway, at the half-expressed request of the hostess, and partly from the suggestions of his own mood.  He began with dreamy music; it was heavy with odors, at first, drugged with sense, then spiritualizing into strange, delicate fancies.  Then came strength with a sonata of Beethoven’s; then the strains died back again into a song singing without words.

“You would like some dance-music now,” said Arnold to the beautiful Caroline, who stood by his side.  “Shall I play some music that will make everybody dance?”

“Like the music in the fairy-tale,” said Caroline; “oh, I should like that!  I often hear such dance-music, that sets me stirring; it seems as if it ought to move old and young.”