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Falbe, as was his habit when interested, sat absolutely still, but receptive and alert, instead of jerking and fidgeting as he had done over Michael's fiasco in the Chopin prelude, and at the end he jumped up with a certain excitement. "Do you know what you've done?" he said. "You've done something that's really good. Faults? Yes, millions; but there's a first-rate imagination at the bottom of it.
He just watched, as if discarnate, the unrolling of the decrees of Fate which were to bring so simple and overpowering a tragedy on the two who drained the love-potion together. And at the end he fell back in his seat, feeling thrilled and tired, exhilarated and exhausted. "Oh, Hermann," he said, "what years I've wasted!" Falbe laughed. "You've wasted more than you know yet," he said. "Hallo!"
There's not a breath of wind in the trees and chimney-pots; and it's hot, it's really hot." "I was afraid there was going to be a chill at sunset," remarked Mrs. Falbe subaqueously. "Then you were afraid even where no fear was, mother darling," said he, "and if you would like to sit out in the garden I'll take a chair out for you, and a table and candles.
For just a second more Falbe hesitated. Then he held out his hand. "I thank you most awfully," he said. "I accept with the greatest pleasure." Michael drew a long breath of relief. "I am glad," he said. "So that's settled. It's really nice of you." The heat of the day was passing off, and over the sun-bleached plain the coolness of evening was beginning to steal.
Nor did it avail anything now, for Mrs. Falbe, who was quite determined to pursue her reading without delay, moved towards the door. "But I am sure Michael wants to talk to you, dear," she said, "and you have not seen him all day. I think I shall go up to bed."
He was there just then not to see, but to be seen, his incognito was momentarily in abeyance, and he stood forth the supreme head of his people, the All-highest War Lord, who had come that day from the field, to which he would return across half Germany tomorrow. It was an impressive and dignified moment, and Michael heard Falbe say to himself: "Kaiserlich! Kaiserlich!" Then it was over.
"Look, Michael," she said. "Miss Falbe means to stop a long time. That is sweet of her, is it not? She is not in such a hurry to get away today. Sugar, Miss Falbe? Yes, I remember you take sugar and milk, but no cream. Well, I do think this is nice!" Sylvia had seen neither mother nor son for a couple of weeks, and her eyes coming fresh to them noticed much change in them both.
But with Falbe he was able for the first time to forget himself altogether; he had met a man who did not recall him to himself, but took him clean out of that tedious dwelling which he knew so well and, indeed, disliked so much.
And yet he had just had his tea as usual, and eaten a slice of cake, and was now smoking a cigarette. It was natural to do that, not to make a fuss and refuse food and drink, and it was natural that people should still be interested in cricket. And at the moment his attitude towards Mrs. Falbe changed.
Falbe got up and, coming over to the piano, struck the bass note himself. "Yes, I knew it was dumb," he said, "but you made me think it wasn't. . . . You got quite a good tone out of it." He paused a moment, again striking the dumb note, as if to make sure that it was soundless. "Yes; I'll teach you," he said.
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