"Does he really understand me better?" thought George, "than I do him, or is it simply another piece of megalomania...?" Heinrich suddenly started as though emerging from a dream. He looked at his watch. "Half-past two! And my train goes at eight to-morrow." "What, you are going away?" "Yes, that is what I wanted to speak to you about so much. I shall have to say goodbye to you for a goodish time, I'm sorry to say. I am going to Prague. I am taking my father away, out of the asylum home to our own house." "Is he better, then?" "No, but he is in that stage when he is not dangerous to those near him.... Yes, that came quite quickly too." "And about when do you think you will be back?" Heinrich shook his shoulders. "I can't tell to-day, but however the thing develops, I certainly cannot leave my mother and sisters alone now." George felt a genuine regret at being deprived of Heinrich's society in the near future. "It's possible that you won't find me in Vienna again when you come back. I shall probably go away this spring, you see." And he almost felt a desire to take Heinrich into his confidence. "I suppose you are travelling south?" asked Heinrich. "Yes, I think so. To enjoy my freedom once again, just for a few months. Serious life begins next autumn, you see. I am looking out for a position in Germany at some theatre or other." "Really?" The waiter came to the table. They paid and went. They met Rapp and Gleissner together in the doorway. They exchanged a few words of greeting. "And what have you been doing all this time, Herr Rapp?" asked George courteously. Rapp took off his pince-nez. "Oh, my melancholy old job all the time. I am engaged in demonstrating the vanity of vanities." "You might make a change, Rapp," said Heinrich. "Try your luck for once and praise the splendour of splendours." "What is the point?" said Rapp, and put on his glasses. "That will prove itself in the course of time. But as a rule rotten work only keeps alive during its good fortune and its fame, and when the world at last realises the swindle, it has either been in the grave for a long time or has taken refuge in its presumable immortality." They were now in the street and all turned up their coat collars, since it had begun again to snow violently. Gleissner, who had had his first great dramatic success a few weeks ago, quickly told them that the seventh performance of his work, which had taken place to-day, had also been sold out. Rapp used that as a peg on which to hang malicious observations on the stupidity of the public. Gleissner answered with gibes at the impotence of the critic when confronted with true genius--and so they walked away through the snow with turned-up collar, quite enveloped in the steaming hate of their old friendship. "That Rapp has no luck," said Heinrich to George. "He'll never forgive Gleissner for not disappointing him." "Do you consider him so jealous?"