"I?…"
He slowly sipped the wine.
"Why, yes, about your tours."
"Good Heavens, one town is just like all the others. You must not, of course, lose sight of the fact that I only rarely travel for my own pleasure."
"Quite so, of course."
During the whole time she had not given a thought to the fact that it was Emil Lindbach, the celebrated violin virtuoso, with whom she was sitting there; and she felt bound to say:
"By the way, you are playing in Vienna soon. I should be very glad to hear you."
"Not a soul will hinder you from doing so," he replied drily.
It passed through her mind that it would really be very much nicer for her to hear him play, not at the concert, but for herself alone. She had almost said so, but then it occurred to her that that would have meant nothing else than: "I will come with you"—and, who could say, perhaps very soon she would go with him. It would be as easy for her as ever, if she had had some wine…. Yet, not so, the wine was affecting her differently from usual—it was not the soft inebriation which made her feel a little more cheerful; it was better, lovelier. It was not the few drops of wine that made it so; it was the touch of his dear hand, as he stroked her brow and hair. He had sat down beside her and he drew her head onto his shoulder. How gladly would she have fallen asleep like that…. Yes, indeed, nothing else did she desire…. Then she heard him whisper: "Darling."… She trembled softly.
Why was this the first time? Could she not have had all this before? Was there a grain of sense in living as she did?… After all, there was nothing wicked in what she was doing now…. And how sweet it was to feel the breath of a young man upon her eyelids!… No, not—not the breath of a young man… of a lover….