"And how are you getting on"—she threw a look at Heinrich—"with your opera?"
"Nothing is done so far. Who knows if anything will come of it?"
"Of course nothing will come of it."
George smiled. "Why are you so stern with me to-day?"
"I am very angry with you."
"With me! Why?"
"That you always go on giving people occasion to regard you as a dilettante."
This was a home thrust. George actually felt a slight sense of malice against Else, then quickly pulled himself together and answered: "That perhaps is just what I am. And if one isn't a genius it is much better to be an honest dilettante than ... than an artist with a swollen head."
"Nobody wants you to do great things all at once, but all the same one really should not let oneself go in the way you do in both your inner and your outward life."
"I really don't understand you, Else. How can one contend.... Do you know that I am going to Germany in the autumn as a conductor?"