The rich, intoxicating breath of the narcissus at my
belt floated about me, like the clinging, passionate
tenderness of my lover's voice. Was that his voice?
and what are those dancing lights just beyond the
window? What if that curious face which just passed
were an imp's grinning face peering in at me, — and
the driver, — if he were the uncanny rider of the
broom-stick and we were whirling off towards that
star, away, away, —



THE PRICE OF SUCCESS

I started suddenly, as the carriage stopped before
my door, vexed that I was so weary with my evening's
work. It was not late; I would shake off my depres-
sion by writing to James, and go to bed early. I had
neglected James lately, sending him only newspaper
cuttings, when people had praised my work, — he is
so foolishly proud of my playing. I wrote to him of
my success, for I had many engagements and was
earning money, of my plans for the winter, and of my
own vague dissatisfaction with myself. I wrote of my
song, "Die Liebe," how I had composed it for him,
and would play it to him when we were together again.
James seemed very near to me as I was writing; I
longed so much to be with him, that I told him I
would leave the city soon, and go to him. I had not
seen him for a year, since he was sent away on scien-
tific business, and now I was weary of the drifting
and the loneliness. Ambition and enthusiasm for my
music were swallowed up in a great love and yearning
for home.
