voices, Again he thought of life as a series of variations on a given theme. His had surely passed through enough. Further variations could only be anticlimactic. Yet it was so difficult to know when to stop.
His strength had come back as if by magic with his absorption in the music. His body was forgotten, he was again the creature all wings. What if he endeavoured to live, after all? There were always ways of making shift. He thought of Gritty. She was a sort of sublimated Suzy—a Suzy with the advantages of talent, brains, and what she had called "one genuine little streak." If Gritty only knew, she would insist on helping him as a right—a right given by sisterly regard. In a sense he even owed Gritty the opportunity to be of service to him. She had once expressed a desire to share his destiny in some way.
Yet
His fatigue was creeping back. The thought of going over old ground, of preparing a fresh campaign against the world of fact—even were it worth the effort, could he undertake the responsibility? Something in him held back, something whispered: "Your solo is finished, and a damn bad job you made of it; get off the platform."
He turned away from the organ.
For once Monsieur had not dozed. A psychical sympathy which had grown up between them made him respond to Paul's mood.
"You're tired, to-day, my young friend. Has something gone wrong?"
"Things always go wrong, if one is foolish enough to brood. They're right enough if one doesn't care."
"Then you've been brooding—it doesn't pay."
"One has weak moments."
The old man eyed him with vague misgiving. Usually he was too deeply immersed in his own unreal world to be conscious of others' anxieties. "Pourtant," he went
