"For, of course, it is all a trick of
yours. You didn't want to sing. We made you. This is your revenge, eh?
I didn't know you had it in you to be so--so beastly and cantankerous."
Valentine shook his head.
"It's no trick. It's simply as I said. My talent for music is dead. You
have been listening to the voice of its corpse."
Dr. Levillier looked up at length.
"You really mean that?" he said, and there was an awakening within him of
his normal ready interest in all things.
"I mean it absolutely."
"That is the only event in which I can forgive the torture you have been
inflicting upon me."
"That is the true event."
"But it's not possible," Julian said. "It's not conceivable. Surely,
doctor, you would not say--"
The doctor interrupted him.
"I cannot believe that Cresswell would deliberately commit an outrage
upon me," he said. "And it would be an outrage to sing like that to a
tired man. Weeks of work would not fatigue me as I am fatigued by
Cresswell's music."
Julian was silent and looked uneasy. Valentine repeated again:
"I couldn't help it. I am sorry."
Doctor Levillier ignored the remark. His professional interest was
beginning to be aroused. For the first time he felt convinced that some
very peculiar and bizarre change was dawning over the youth he knew so
well.
Pages:
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337