"Speak to me, please do! I am so frightened!" she whispered with
beating heart. "Why don't you speak to me?"
I felt plainly how her heart was beating, and I placed my lips close
to her ears and whispered:
"But now you are forgetting your friend!"
She heard me, she trembled and let me go quickly; she pushed me away
with both hands, and threw herself down in the seat. I sat there
alone. I heard her sobs through the darkness.
"This was The Power of Love," Ojen said.
Everybody listened attentively; Milde sat with open mouth.
"Well--what more?" he asked, evidently thinking there must be a climax yet
to come. "Is that all? But Heaven preserve us, man, what is it all about?
No; the so-called poetry you young writers are dishing out nowadays--I
call it arrant rot!"
They all laughed loudly. The effect was spoiled; the poet with the compass
in his fob arose, pointed straight at Milde, and said furiously:
"This gentleman evidently lacks all understanding of modern poetry."
"Modern poetry! This sniffing at the moon and the sun, these filigree
phrases and unintelligible fancies--There must, at least, be a point, a
climax, to everything!"
Ojen was pale and furious.
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