Isaacson. He strove to detach his mind from this thought of Mrs.
Chepstow. But his effort was in vain. Her pulse was beneath his fingers,
and with every stroke of it he felt more keenly the mystery and cruelty
of life. When the movement was finished, he did not speak a word. Nor
did he look at Nigel. Even when the last note of the symphony seemed to
fade and fall downwards into an abyss of misery and blackness, he did
not speak or move. He felt crushed and overwhelmed, like one beaten and
bruised.

"Isaacson!"

"Yes?"

He turned a little in his seat.

"Grand music! But it's all wrong."

"Why?"

"Wrong in its lesson."

The artist in Isaacson could not conceal a shudder.

"I don't look for a lesson; I don't want a lesson in it."

"But the composer forces it on one--a lesson of despair. Give it all up!
No use to make your effort. The Immanent Will broods over you. You must
go down in the end. That music is a great lie. It's splendid, it's
superb, but it's a lie."