XIII
Adolph was practising some new Futurist music of Ravel's. Its dissonances fatigued and irritated him, but he was lured by its horrible fascination, and grated away with an enraged persistence. Paris was hot, the attic hotter, for it was July. Adolph wondered as he played how long it would be before he could get away to the sea. He was out of love with the city, and thought longingly of a possible trip to Sweden. His reflections were interrupted by Stefan, who pushed the door open listlessly, and instantly implored him to stop making a din.
“What awful stuff—it's like the Cubist horrors,” said he, petulantly.
“Yes, my friend, yet I play the one, and you go to see the other,” said Adolph, laying down his fiddle and mopping his head and hands.
“Not I,” contradicted Stefan, wandering over to his easel. On it was an unfinished sketch of Felicity dancing—several other impressions of her stood about the room.
“Rotten work,” he said, surveying them moodily. “All I have to show for over three months here. Adolph,” he flung himself into a chair, and rumpled his hair angrily, “I'm sick of my way of life. My marriage was a mistake, but it was better than this. I did better work with Mary than I do with Felicity, and I didn't hate myself.”
“Well, my infant,” said Adolph, with a relieved sigh, “I'm glad to hear you say it. You've told me nothing, but I am sure your marriage was a better thing than you think. As for this little lady—” he shrugged his shoulders—“I make nothing of this affair.”
Stefan's frown was moodier still.
“Felicity is the most alluring woman I have ever known, and I believe she is fond of me. But she is affected, capricious, and a perfect mass of egotism.”
“For egotism you are not the man to blame her,” smiled his friend.