“Hermann, don’t go,” said Michael suddenly.
“Mike, you didn’t mean that,” he said.
Michael looked at him for a moment in silence.
“No, it is unsaid,” he replied.
Hermann looked round as the clock on the chimney-piece chimed.
“I must be going,” he said, “I needn’t say anything to you about Sylvia, because all I could say is in your heart already. Well, we’ve met in this jolly world, Mike, and we’ve been great friends. Neither you nor I could find a greater friend than we’ve been to each other. I bless God for this last year. It’s been the happiest in my life. Now what else is there? Your music: don’t ever be lazy about your music. It’s worth while taking all the pains you can about it. Lord! do you remember the evening when I first tried your Variations? . . . Let me play the last one now. I want something jubilant. Let’s see, how does it go?”
He held his hands, those long, slim-fingered hands, poised for a moment above the keys, then plunged into the glorious riot of the full chords and scales, till the room rang with it. The last chord he held for a moment, and then sprang up.
“Ah, that’s good,” he said. “And now I’m going to say good-bye, and go without looking round.”
“But might I see you off this afternoon?” asked Michael.
“No, please don’t. Station partings are fussy and disagreeable. I want to say good-bye to you here in your quiet room, just as I shall say goodbye to Sylvia at home. Ah, Mike, yes, both hands and smiling. May God give us other meetings and talks and companionship and years of love, my best of friends. Good-bye.”