Left to herself, Louise Dufrayer walked slowly home to her room in the BRUDERSTRASSE, but only to throw a hasty look round. It was just as she had expected: although it was long past the appointed time, he was not there. At a flower-shop in a big adjoining street, she bought a bunch of many-coloured roses, and with these in her hands, went straight to where Schilsky lived.
Mounting to the third floor of the house in the TALSTRASSE, she opened, without ceremony, the door of his room, which gave direct on the landing; but so stealthily that the young man, who was sitting with his back to the door, did not hear her enter. Before he could turn, she had sprung forward, her arms were round his neck, and the roses under his nose. He drew his face away from their damp fragrance, but did not look up, and, without removing his cigarette, asked in a tone of extreme bad temper: "What are you doing here, Lulu? What nonsense is this? For God's sake, shut the door!"
She ruffled his hair with her lips. "You didn't come. And the day has seemed so long."
He tried to free himself, putting the roses aside with one hand, while, with his cigarette, he pointed to the sheets of music-paper that lay before him. "For a very good reason. I've had no time."
She went back and closed the door; and then, sitting down on his knee, unpinned her big hat, and threw it and the roses on the bed. He put his arm round her to steady her, and as soon as he held her to him, his ill-temper was vanquished. He talked volubly of the instrumentation he was busy with. But she, who could point out almost every fresh note he put on paper, saw plainly that he had not been at work for more than a quarter of an hour; and, in a miserable swell of doubt and jealousy, such as she could never subdue, she asked:
"Were you practising as well?"
He took no notice of these words, and she did not trust herself to say more, until, with his free hand, he began jotting again, making notes that were no bigger than pin-heads. Then she laid her hand on his. "I haven't seen you all day."
But he was too engrossed to listen. "Look here," he said pointing to a thick-sown bar. "That gave me the deuce of a bother. While here "—and now he explained to her, in detail, the properties of the tenor-tuba in B, and the bass-tuba in F, and the use to which he intended to put these instruments. She heard him with lowered eyes, lightly caressing the back of his hand with her finger-tips. But when he ceased speaking, she rubbed her cheek against his.
"It is enough for to-day. Lulu has been lonely."
Not one of his thoughts was with her, she saw that, as he answered: "I must get this finished."
"To-night?"
"If I can. You know well enough, Lulu, when I'm in the swing——"
"Yes, yes, I know. If only it wouldn't always come, just when I want you most."
Her face lost its brightness; she rose from his knee and roamed about the room, watched from the wall by her pictured self.
"But is there ever a moment in the day when you don't want me? You are never satisfied." He spoke abstractedly, without interest in the answer she might make, and, relieved of her weight, leant forward again, while his fingers played some notes on the table. But when she began to let her hands stray over the loose papers and other articles that encumbered chairs, piano and washstand, he raised his head and watched her with a sharp eye.
"For goodness' sake, let those things alone, can't you?" he said after he had borne her fidgeting for some time.
"You have no secrets from me, I suppose?" She said it with her tenderest smile, but he scowled so darkly in reply that she went over to him again, to touch him with her hand. Standing behind him, with her fingers in his hair, she said: "Just to-day I wanted you so much. This morning I was so depressed that I could have killed myself."
He turned his head, to give her a significant glance.
"Good reason for the blues, Lulu. I warned you. You want too much of everything. And can't expect to escape a KATER."
"Too much?" she echoed, quick to resent his words. "Does it seem so to you? Would days and days of happiness be too much after we have been separated for a week?—after Wednesday night?—after what you said to me yesterday?"
"Yesterday I was in the devil of a temper. Why rake up old scores? Now go home. Or at least keep quiet, and let me get something done."
He shook his head free of her caressing hand, and, worse still, scratched the place where it had lain. She stood irresolute, not venturing to touch him again, looking hungrily at him. Her eyes fell on the piece of neck, smooth, lightly browned, that showed between his hair and the low collar; and, in an uncontrollable rush of feeling, she stooped and kissed it. As he accepted the caress, without demur, she said: "I thought of going to the theatre to-night, dear."
He was pleased and showed it. "That's right—it's just what you need to cheer you up."
"But I want you to come, too."
He struck the table with his fist. "Good God, can't you get it into your head that I want to work?"
She laughed, with ready bitterness. "I should think I could. That's nothing new. You are always busy when I ask you to do anything. You have time for everything and every one but me. If this were something you yourself wanted to do to-night, neither your work nor anything else would stand in the way of it; but my wishes can always be ignored. Have you forgotten already that I only came home the day before yesterday?"
He looked sullen. "Now don't make a scene, Lulu. It doesn't do a whit of good."
"A scene!" she cried, seizing on his words. "Whenever I open my lips now, you call it a scene. Tell me what I have done, Eugen! Why do you treat me like this? Are you beginning to care less for me? The first evening, the very first, I get home, you won't stay with me—you haven't even kept that evening free for me—and when I ask you about it, and try to get at the truth—oh, do you remember all the cruel things you said to me yesterday? I shall never forget them as long as I live. And now, when I ask you to come out with me—it is such a little thing-oh, I can't sit at home this evening, Eugen, I can't do it! If you really loved me, you would understand."
She flung herself across the bed and sobbed despairingly. Schilsky, who had again made believe during this outburst to be absorbed in his work, cast a look of mingled anger and discomfort at the prostrate figure, and for some few moments, succeeded in continuing his occupation with a show of indifference; but as, in place of abating, her sobs grew more heart-rending, his own face began to twitch, and finally he dropped pencil and cigarette, and with a loud expression of annoyance went over to the bed.
"Lulu," he said persuasively. "Come, Lulu," and bending over her, he laid his hands on her shoulders and tried to force her to rise. She resisted him with all her might, but he was the stronger, and presently he had her on her feet, where, with her head on his shoulder, she wept out the rest of her tears. He held her to him, and although his face above her was still dark, did what he could to soothe her. He could never bear, to see or to hear a woman cry, and this loud passionate weeping, so careless of anything