“To transfuse these shadows, my dear Alixe, has been one of my delights, for I can project my futile desires into another’s soul.  I am denied the gift of music-making, so this is my revenge on nature for bungling its job.  If Richard had genius, my intervention would be superfluous.  He has none.  He is dull.  You must realize it.  But since he has known me, has felt my influence, has been subject to my volition, my sorcery, you may call it,—­” his laugh was disagreeably conscious,—­“he has developed the shadow of a great man.  He will seem a great composer.  I shall make him think he is one.  I shall make the world believe it, also.  It is my fashion of squaring a life I hate.  But if I chose to withdraw—­”

The road they entered was black and full of the buzzing shadows of hot night, but she was oblivious to everything but his hallucinating voice:—­

“And if you withdraw?” Her mouth echoed phrases without the complicity of her brain.

“If I do—­ah, these cobweb spinners!  Good-by to Richard Van Kuyp and dreams of glory.”  This note of harsh triumph snapped his weaving words.

“I don’t believe you or your boasts,” remarked Alixe, in her most conventionally amused manner.  “You are trying to scare me, and with this hypnotic joke about Richard you have only hypnotized yourself.  I mean to tell Mr. Van Kuyp every bit of our conversation.  I’m not frightened by your vampire tales.  You critics are only shadows of composers.”

“Yes, but we make ordinary composers believe they are great,” he replied acridly.

“I’ll tell this to Richard.”

“He won’t believe you.”

“He shall—­he won’t believe you!  Oh, Rentgen, how can you invent such cruel things?  Are you always so malicious?  What do you mean?  Come—­what do you expect?” She closed her eyes, anticipating an avowal.  Why should a man seek to destroy her faith in her husband, in love itself, if not for some selfish purpose of his own?  But she was wrong, and became vaguely alarmed—­at least if he had offered his service and sympathy in exchange for her friendship, she might have understood his fantastic talk.  Rentgen sourly reflected—­despite epigrams, women never vary.  For him her sentiment was suburban.  It strangled poetry.  But he said nothing, though she imagined he looked depressed; nor did he open his mouth as the carriage traversed avenues of processional poplars before arriving at her door.  She turned to him imploringly:—­

“You must come with me.  I shall never be able to go in alone, without an excuse.  Don’t—­don’t repeat to Richard what you said to me, in joke, I am sure, about his music.  Heavens!  What will my husband think?” There was despair in her voice, but hopefulness in her gait and gesture, when they reached the ill-lighted hall.

A night-lamp stood on the composer’s study table.  The piano was open.  He sat at the keyboard, though not playing, as they hurriedly entered the room.