that Paul had said about her music-lessons?  And suddenly it struck him that he knew nothing, absolutely nothing, of where she went or what she did.  She never told him anything.  Music-lessons?  Every day, nearly, she went out, was away for hours.  The thought that she might go to the arms of another man made him put down his violin with a feeling of actual sickness.  Why not?  That deep and fearful whipping of the sexual instinct which makes the ache of jealousy so truly terrible was at its full in such a nature as Fiorsen’s.  He drew a long breath and shuddered.  The remembrance of her fastidious pride, her candour, above all her passivity cut in across his fear.  No, not Gyp!

He went to a little table whereon stood a tantalus, tumblers, and a syphon, and pouring out some brandy, drank.  It steadied him.  And he began to practise.  He took a passage from Brahms’ violin concerto and began to play it over and over.  Suddenly, he found he was repeating the same flaws each time; he was not attending.  The fingering of that thing was ghastly!  Music-lessons!  Why did she take them?  Waste of time and money—­she would never be anything but an amateur!  Ugh!  Unconsciously, he had stopped playing.  Had she gone there to-day?  It was past lunch-time.  Perhaps she had come in.

He put down his violin and went back to the house.  No sign of her!  The maid came to ask if he would lunch.  No!  Was the mistress to be in?  She had not said.  He went into the dining-room, ate a biscuit, and drank a brandy and soda.  It steadied him.  Lighting a cigarette, he came back to the drawing-room and sat down at Gyp’s bureau.  How tidy!  On the little calendar, a pencil-cross was set against to-day—­Wednesday, another against Friday.  What for?  Music-lessons!  He reached to a pigeon-hole, and took out her address-book.  “H—­Harmost, 305A, Marylebone Road,” and against it the words in pencil, “3 P.M.”

Three o’clock.  So that was her hour!  His eyes rested idly on a little old coloured print of a Bacchante, with flowing green scarf, shaking a tambourine at a naked Cupid, who with a baby bow and arrow in his hands, was gazing up at her.  He turned it over; on the back was written in a pointed, scriggly hand, “To my little friend.—­E.  H.”  Fiorsen drew smoke deep down into his lungs, expelled it slowly, and went to the piano.  He opened it and began to play, staring vacantly before him, the cigarette burned nearly to his lips.  He went on, scarcely knowing what he played.  At last he stopped, and sat dejected.  A great artist?  Often, nowadays, he did not care if he never touched a violin again.  Tired of standing up before a sea of dull faces, seeing the blockheads knock their silly hands one against the other!  Sick of the sameness of it all!  Besides—­besides, were his powers beginning to fail?  What was happening to him of late?