I felt plainly how her heart was beating, and I placed my lips close
to her ears and whispered:
"But now you are forgetting your friend!"
She heard me, she trembled and let me go quickly; she pushed me away with both hands, and threw herself down in the seat. I sat there alone. I heard her sobs through the darkness.
"This was The Power of Love," Ojen said.
Everybody listened attentively; Milde sat with open mouth.
"Well—what more?" he asked, evidently thinking there must be a climax yet to come. "Is that all? But Heaven preserve us, man, what is it all about? No; the so-called poetry you young writers are dishing out nowadays—I call it arrant rot!"
They all laughed loudly. The effect was spoiled; the poet with the compass in his fob arose, pointed straight at Milde, and said furiously:
"This gentleman evidently lacks all understanding of modern poetry."
"Modern poetry! This sniffing at the moon and the sun, these filigree phrases and unintelligible fancies—There must, at least, be a point, a climax, to everything!"
Ojen was pale and furious.