"They're fine, Brin. Live with Ela? No more than anyone else these days."
Brin chuckled. "A neat remark, Seth—I must remember it to your true love the next time I have reason to see her."
The men laughed appreciatively, the colors wheeling in rhythm across their grinning faces.
Suddenly three young women converged on the group, having spied Sethos from inside.
"Oh, Sethos!" one cried. "How wonderful you're here!"
"Are you still composing that magnificent diphonic music?" asked another breathlessly.
Grimly, he realized he was trapped again. Every party brought on something like this. How could he explain to these well-meaning girls that he was trying to forget the past, that it bored him, that his music was trite and his painting insipid? Still they would clamor for it.
"Excuse me," muttered Sethos, walking away. His ears rang with their adulation, but it always sickened him. Efforts he considered nothing at all were worshiped by the others. It was demoralizing.
Following the path around the corner, he descended from the noise of the house, opening his mouth and inhaling the cool night air as though to cleanse his lungs. He was growing extremely weary of the people at parties.
From here he could see the town laid out below, the four directions of it, and he tried to guess how many times he had walked each street one end to the other, then turned around and walked back, simply because no one ever considered going straight on.