“The very life,” repeated Barnes.
“In business, it’s every man for himself; but in music you’ve got to have someone to sing to, someone to play for.”
“What about the masters?”
“Oh, when a man’s a genius, it’s different. But when you’re just human—well, that’s all I am and I’m glad of it. I don’t care for lonely grandeur, Joe. I only want to climb as high as I can go with Eleanor.”
“Good Lord,” exploded Barnes, “can a man go any higher than that?”
“I can’t at any rate,” answered Langdon, simply.
Barnes studied him a moment. Then he said more quietly, “And you’re sure you can go as far as that? You’re sure you can go as high as she can take you, Langdon?”
“A man can’t tell, Joe,” answered Langdon, sincerely, “but at times—like this morning—I feel as though there were no heights I couldn’t reach. She seems to put the whole world into song. I find myself trying to set to music everything she looks at. It’s wonderful. It’s—it’s almost terrifying. Why, when you were telling her about Alaska—I watched her eyes and almost caught a symphony there.”
Barnes moved uneasily.
“What is it?” demanded Langdon. “It seems as though you ought to understand.”