"So!" said he, pushing one of my arms through the sleeve. "Now," as he still held it fastened together, and looked half laughingly at me, "do you intend to keep it on or not?"
"I call that gratitude. Take my arm--so. You are weak yet."
We walked on in silence for some time. I was happy; for the first time since the night I had heard "Lohengrin" I was happy and at rest. True, no forgiveness had been asked or extended; but he had ceased to behave as if I were not forgiven.
"Yes, I am, I see. We will moderate the pace a little."
We walked more slowly. Physically I was inexpressibly weary. The reaction after my drenching had set in; I felt a languor which amounted to pain, and an aching and weakness in every limb. I tried to regret the event, but could not; tried to wish it were not such a long walk to Elberthal, and found myself perversely regretting that it was such a short one.
At length the lights of the town came in sight. I heaved a deep sigh. Soon it would be over--"the glory and the dream."
"I think we are exactly on the way to your house, _nicht wahr_?" said he.
"Yes; and to yours since we are opposite neighbors."
"You are not as lonely as I am, though; you have companions."
But "_auch_ Sigmund" may express much more in German than in English. It did so then.
I did not mean to be foolishly sentimental. The sigh that followed my words was involuntary.
"Have I? Oh, yes, of course!" said I, thinking of von Francius.
"Do you get on with your music?" he next inquired.
"I hope so. I--do you think it strange that I should live there all alone?" I asked, tormented with a desire to know what he did think of me, and crassly ready to burst into explanations on the least provocation. I was destined to be undeceived.
"I have not thought about it at all; it is not my business."
Snub number one. He had spoken quickly, as if to clear himself as much as possible from any semblance of interest to me.
I went on, rashly plunging into further intricacies of conversation:
"It is curious that you and I should not only live near to each other, but actually have the same profession at last."
"Music. Your profession is music, and mine will be."
"I do not see the resemblance. There is little point of likeness between a young lady who is in training for a prima-donna and an obscure musiker, who contributes his share of shakes and runs to the symphony."