"Well?" he queried.
"You are a curious man!" she said wonderingly. "Aren't you interested in the news about your symphonic poem?" He smiled the smile of the fatuous elect. "I imagine it went all right," he languidly replied. "I heard it at rehearsal yesterday—I suppose Thelème took the tempi too slow!"
She sighed and asked:—
"What are you reading a night like this?" His expression became animated.
"A volume of Celtic poetry—I've found a stunning idea for music. What a tone-poem it will make! Here it is. What colour, what rhythms. It is called The Shadowy Horses. 'I hear the shadowy horses, their long manes a-shake'—"
"Who gave you the poem?"
"Oh, Rentgen, of course. Did you see him to-night?"
"You dear boy! You must be tired to death. Better rest. The critics will get you up early enough."
Through interminable hours the mind of Alixe revolved about a phrase she had picked up from Elvard Rentgen: "Music is a trap for weak souls; for the strong as the spinning of cobwebs...."