“I wonder if I am true to my art. I want to be. I am feeling the way as yet, however. When I get to the place where I am sure of what is true to me in art, I hope I shall stick to that. At present I seem to be in the fix of that fellow in the Bible—who was it that asked what is truth?”
“Pilate, I believe.”
The young man stood thoughtfully playing little snatches on his violin, only a few notes of a motif or some simple melody. Presently he broke into a wild Hungarian dance. “Let’s be gay, be gay,” he said. “We mustn’t spend time in moralizing. We must live, live. Here we are, you and I, young and happy. The world is beautiful, the sky is blue. There is poetry everywhere. Listen.” A few crashing chords closed the dance and he began softly to play the motif of the “Waldweben” watching Nan who leaned forward, her chin in her hand, her eyes fixed on the further shore. As the last notes of the bird song died away he lowered his violin. “Well, Brunhilde,” he said, “awaken!”
Nan smiled. “I was there, in the woods. How did you know?”
“I guessed as much. You see I have been playing on your emotions and you look quite pale. Have you had enough of my performance?”
“Oh, no, only I am sure you have had, and I must go back.”
“Oh, bother, what for? The day is still fairly young. Stay and talk to me a while.”
Nan hesitated. “I think we’d better go back. We can talk there.”
“Where is everybody?”
“Gone to Davis’s store to buy materials for housewives. Each of us has sworn to have one always on hand since Hartley’s accident.”