It was not Hagen, elegant and accomplished though he was, who set the pace, but the tall green and white form. Round and round she went, listless as ever. Hagen let himself be carried along. An ecstatic flush suffused his fair, boyish face. He was as clay in the hands of his Sovereign. Red, green, red, green, then a blur. The complementary colours appeared. They turned, turned, turned...
In France we should have clapped.
She went back to her place a drooping lily. As she adjusted her right shoulder-strap, she let fall the lovely bouquet of purple iris which she had been carrying. I rushed forward and picked it up.
"Thank you, monsieur," she said casually. Then, this time voluntarily, she dropped them again.
Good Lord! they were already faded.
* * * * * *
I went back to my room, opened the window, and, gazing out at the cold stars, drank the dregs of humiliation. I understood. She felt a hopeless antipathy to me. What was it? What had I done? I didn't know.
The outcast's motto came back to me: "To work!"
I could still hear the distant strains of the band. Limousines crossed the Königsplatz with their glaring headlights. Their occupants were happier than I, for they had seen her since I had.
To work!