“What you say, Alixe—­” the familiarity brought with it no condescending reverberations—­“has bothered me more than once.  I shall be just as frank on my side.  No, your husband has but little talent; original talent, none.  He is mediocre—­wait!” She started, her cheeks red with the blood that fled her heart when she heard this doleful news.  “Wait!  There are qualifications.  In the first place, what do you expect from an American?”

“But you always write so glowingly of our composers,” she interjected.

“And,” he went on as if she had not spoken, “Van Kuyp is your typical countryman.  He has studied in Germany.  He has muddled his brain with the music of a dozen different nations; if he had had any individuality it would have been submerged.  His memory has killed his imagination.  He borrows his inspiration from the poets, from Liszt, Wagner, Berlioz, Richard Strauss.  Anyhow, like all musicians of his country, he is too painfully self-conscious of his nationality.”

“You, alone, are responsible for his present ambitions,” retorted the unhappy woman.

“Quite true, my dear friend.  I acknowledge it.”

“And you say this to my face?”

“Do you wish me to lie?” She did not reply.  After a grim pause she burst forth:—­

“Oh, why doesn’t he compose an opera, and make a popular name?”

“Richard Wagner Number II!” There were implications of sarcasm in this which greatly displeased Mrs. Van Kuyp.  They strolled on slowly.  It was a melodious summer night; mauve haze screened all but the exquisite large stars.  Soothed despite rebellion, Alixe told herself sharply that in every duel with this man she was worsted.  He said things that scratched her nerves; yet she forgave.  He had not the slightest attraction for her; nevertheless, when he spoke, she listened, when he wrote, she read.  He ruled the husband through his music; he ruled her through her husband.  And what did he expect?

They retraced their way.  A fantastic bridge spanning the brief marshland, frozen by the moonlight, appealed to them.  They crossed.  A coachman driving an open carriage hailed confidentially.  Alixe entered and with a dexterous play of draperies usurped the back seat.  Rentgen made no sign.  He had her in full view, the moon streaking her disturbed features with its unflattering pencil.

They started bravely, the horses running for home; but the rapid gait soon subsided into a rhythmic trot.  Rentgen spoke.  She hardly recognized his voice, so gently monotonous were his phrases.

“Dear Alixe.  It is a night for confessions.  You care for your husband, you are wrapped up in his art work, you are solicitous of his future, of his fame.  It is admirable.  You are a model wife for an artist.  But tell me frankly, doesn’t it bore you to death?  Doesn’t all this talk of music, themes, orchestration, of the public, critics, musicians, conductors, get on your nerves?  Is