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Not a single picture was to be seen. But on the walls, hidden behind the hangings, Ormarr had placed large reproductions of well-known portraits of great composers. And when playing, he would uncover the picture of that particular master with whose work he was occupied for the moment.

On the day before his first concert, Ormarr was resting, fully dressed, on the divan. He was smoking; a bottle of wine and a glass stood within reach on a small table.

He had been out for his usual morning walk. But for the last three hours he had not moved. It was now drawing towards twilight. His glance moved idly from one window to the other, following the race of clouds against the background of a dull blue sky.

There was a knock at the door. Languidly Ormarr rose to open. He recognized the voice of his friend, Aage Blad.

Save for Grahl, Ormarr’s only intimate friend was the young poet, Aage Blad; the two were constant companions. Blad’s earnest love of life had endeared him to Ormarr, and though the latter, true to his adopted rôle of insincerity, often made fun of his friend’s seriousness, the poet had soon realized that it was not meant, and as a rule paid no heed to it. But if ever he found that he had gone too far, Ormarr always relapsed into silence, and his friend understood that this was his way of asking forgiveness.