Until now he had been speaking German, but he said this distinctly in English and I heard every word.
“Missed the train?” cried Vincent in his cracked voice.
“Nonsense, man! Helfen, here, and Alekotte were in time and they had been at the probe as much as you.”
“I was detained in Köln and couldn’t get back till evening,” said he. “Come along, Friedel; there’s the call-bell.”
I raised my eyes—met his. I do not know what expression was in mine. His never wavered, though he looked at me long and steadily—no glance of recognition—no sign still. I would have risked the astonishment of every one of them now, for a sign that he remembered me. None was given.
“Lohengrin” had no more attraction for me. I felt in pain that was almost physical, and weak with excitement as at last the curtain fell and we left our places.
“You were very quiet,” said Vincent, as we walked home. “Did you not enjoy it?”
“Very much, thank you. It was very beautiful,” said I, faintly.
“So Herr Courvoisier was not at the soirée,” said the loud, rough voice of Anna Sartorius.