restless if he could not be, sore if she talked with and smiled at
others; yet, when he was with her, restless too, unsatisfied, suffering
from his own timidity.

One wet morning, when she was playing the hotel piano, and he
listening, thinking to have her to himself, there came a young German
violinist--pale, and with a brown, thin-waisted coat, longish hair, and
little whiskers--rather a beast, in fact. Soon, of course, this young
beast was asking her to accompany him--as if anyone wanted to hear him
play his disgusting violin! Every word and smile that she gave him hurt
so, seeing how much more interesting than himself this foreigner was!
And his heart grew heavier and heavier, and he thought: If she likes
him I ought not to mind--only, I DO mind! How can I help minding? It was
hateful to see her smiling, and the young beast bending down to her.
And they were talking German, so that he could not tell what they were
saying, which made it more unbearable. He had not known there could be
such torture.

And then he began to want to hurt her, too. But that was mean--besides,
how could he hurt her? She did not care for him. He was nothing to
her--only a boy. If she really thought him only a boy, who felt so
old--it would be horrible. It flashed across him that she might be
playing that young violinist against him! No, she never would do that!
But the young beast looked just the sort that might take advantage of
her smiles. If only he WOULD do something that was not respectful, how
splendid it would be to ask him to come for a walk in the woods, and,
having told him why, give him a thrashing. Afterwards, he would not tell
her, he would not try to gain credit by it. He would keep away till she
wanted him back. But suddenly the thought of what he would feel if she
really meant to take this young man as her friend in place of him became