In moments like this the only relation to his beloved art of which he was conscious was that he was able to understand it with deeper appreciation than any other human being. And he felt that Heinrich had spoken the truth when they had ridden together through a forest damp with the morning dew: it was not creative work--it was simply the atmosphere of his art which was necessary to his existence. He was not one of the damned, like Heinrich, who always felt driven to catch hold of things, to mould them, to preserve them, and who found his world fall to pieces whenever it tried to escape from his creative hand. Isolde in Brangäne's arms had dropped dead over Tristan's body, the last notes were dying away, the curtain fell. George cast a glance up to the box in the first tier. Else stood by the ledge with her look turned towards him, while James put her dark-red cloak over her shoulders, and it was only now, that after a nod of the head as quick as though she had meant no one to notice it, she turned towards the exit. Remarkable, thought George from a distance: there is a certain ... melancholy romantic something about the way she carries herself, about many of her movements. It is then that she reminds me most of the gipsy girl of Nice, or the strange young person with whom I stood in front of the Titian Venus in Florence.... Did she ever love me? No. And she doesn't love her James either. Who is it then?... Perhaps ... it was really that mad drawing-master in Florence. Or no one at all. Or Heinrich, of all people?... He met Skelton in the _foyer_. "Back again?" queried the latter. "Only for a few days," replied George. It transpired that Skelton had not really known what George was doing and had thought that he was on a kind of musical tour through the German towns for the purposes of study. He was now more or less surprised to hear that George was here on leave and had been practically commissioned by the manager to inspect the new production of _Tristan_. "Will this suit you?" said Skelton. "I've got an appointment with Breitner; at the '_Imperial_,' the white room." "Excellent," replied George. "I'm staying there." Doctor von Breitner was already smoking one of his celebrated big cigars when the two men appeared at his table. "What a surprise!" he exclaimed, when George greeted him. He had heard that George was engaged as conductor in Düsseldorf. "Detmold," said George, and he thought: "The people here don't bother about me particularly.... But what does it matter?" Skelton described the _Tristan_ performance and George mentioned that he had spoken to the Ehrenbergs. "Do you know that Oskar Ehrenberg is on his way to India or Ceylon?" asked Doctor von Breitner. "Really!" "And whom do you think with?" "Some woman, I suppose?" "Oh, of course. I've even heard they've got five or seven women with them." "Who?--'they.'" "Oskar Ehrenberg ... and ... have a guess.... Well, the Prince of Guastalla!" "Impossible!"