It was an early hour that evening. Carstairs was seated at the piano in his small cosy room. The gas was turned fairly low. Except for intermittent sounds from the instrument, the room was quiet.
The young man was composing. Vague measures, desolate of all cheer, followed one another in funeral tempo. The monotony, unbroken by even one note of prophecying gladness, was maddening. But the young man persisted in his lugubrious incantation. Presently, he got up, turned the gas a little higher and sat down again. A sheet of music paper lay in front of him. Only a few measures and the title—Dirge—had been transcribed. He started jotting down more notes.
There was a knock at the door. He did not hear it. The knock was repeated. Carstairs struck a petulant dissonance, arose wearily, went over to the door and opened it part way.
“Special delivery!” a man announced.
Carstairs signed the slip, the postman went away and the door was closed. The young composer examined the handwriting and quickly tore open the envelope. The note was very short.
He gave way to eager joy. And he breathed a name twice over: “Elsie!” Nervous animation betrayed him further. He re-read the note five or six times, looked about in bewilderment and re-read the note again. Of a sudden, he hurried over to the bureau and pulled open the bottom drawer. A litter of odds and ends was laid bare. With anxious haste, he threw them all about on the floor. At last, he came to a picture: the photograph of a pretty girl. His joy deepened; he held the picture at arm’s length and gazed a fill of delight. He then arighted himself, went over to the piano, moved the photograph of an older woman to one side and placed this picture near the centre. He was soon occupied studying the effect, and ultimate satisfaction was his.
He again sat down at the piano, but was unable to take his glance from the picture. Eventually, he smiled, gave the picture an au revoir look and again turned his attention to the keyboard and manuscript. He had decided to finish his composition just the same. The dirge continued intoning its gloomy measures, but a note of prophecying gladness appeared. From time to time, too, the composer stole shy glances at the photograph.
In a cosy room in a building not far away, a different scene was taking place. Eric Nielsen and Erna Vitek were sitting close together on a couch, chatting confidentially and bantering each other.
Erna had not broken off her appointment with the young writer even though a sudden change had come into her life. Luckily, Jimmy was away all afternoon, training up in Fordham, and, thanks to his continued absence, she was able to leave their flat shortly after six o’clock. She would only stay out an hour or so and, should he return before her, would tell him that she had to visit Landsmann’s for some small articles she had left behind. On the way to Nielsen’s, she bought two or three trifles. Fortunately, she had found him at home, although she was two hours beforehand.
He had heard of the morning’s event and was heartily sorry. But Erna quickly reassured him. Of course, he did not believe the hazy part of her story,—that she was “stayin’ with some friends”—but his philosophy was equal to the occasion: what Erna hid from him was no concern of his. In all, they had been spending a delightful evening. As a consequence, Erna was staying much longer than she had planned.