It simply seemed as though he
were forgetting them a little--then, more and more; elbowing them aside
to clear the way for his beloved music.
He was no longer deprecating, appealing, leaning upon them: each woman
thought of him as "her child," and when his love made a man of him,
they realised the hurt, nothing more.
He overdid it, too, as genius does overdo things; was brusque, entirely
immersed in his great scheme. Sometimes he even laughed to himself over
this. "They don't know what I'm up to!" he would declare to himself,
with a sense of triumph.
He had never even thought of his music in the money sense before, but
as his love and ambition for the two women grew upon him, he was like a
child with a new toy. He would not only make a great name, he would
make an immense fortune: his mind blinked, dazzled at the very thought.
He moved with a new pride, and also--alas!--a new remoteness.
His health had broken when he was about seventeen--his bent shoulders
still showed that old drag upon the chest--and he was away in a
sanatorium for a year.
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