One afternoon Dorothea, with an open letter in her hand, came rushing into Daniel’s room, where he was working.
“Listen, Daniel, Frau Feistelmann invites me over to a party at her house to-morrow. May I go?”
“You are disturbing me, my dear. Can’t you see you are upsetting me?” asked Daniel reproachfully.
“Oh, I see,” breathed Dorothea, and looked helplessly at the stack of scores that lay on the top of the table. “I am to take my violin along and play a piece or two for the people.”
Daniel gazed into space without being able to comprehend her remarks. He was composing.
Dorothea lost her patience. She stepped up to the place on the wall where the mask of Zingarella had been hanging since his return home. “Daniel, I have been wanting for some time to ask you what that thing is. Why do you keep it there? What’s it for? It annoys me with its everlasting grin.”
Daniel woke up. “That is what you call a grin?” he asked, shaking his head; “Is it possible? That smile from the world beyond appeals to you as a grin?”
“Yes,” replied Dorothea defiantly, “the thing is grinning. And I don’t like it; I can’t stand that silly face; I don’t like it simply because you do like it so much. In fact, you seem to like it better than you do me.”
“No childishness, Dorothea!” said Daniel quietly. “You must get your mind on higher things; and you must respect my spirits.”