While Tom was talking, Drake found it harder and harder to listen. The room felt dull and airless and he had trouble breathing. Tom Lambert’s words came from far off. They didn’t seem to say anything. He forced himself to concentrate, to listen harder.

“…of your work. You are still a young man. Forty to fifty good years ahead of you. And already you have a reputation. You are one of this country’s most promising composers, and your best works still lie ahead. Ana may have performed your work better than anyone else, but there will be others. They will learn. With your talent you owe it to the rest of us not to cut your career off before it reaches its peak.”

“I have no intention of doing so. I will compose again. Later.”

“You mean, later after that?” Tom was frowning and shaking his head. “Suppose there is no later? Drake, take my advice as both your doctor and your friend. You desperately need to get out of your house, and you need to take a vacation. Go off on a cruise somewhere, take a trip around the world. Expose yourself to some new influences. I know how you must feel now, but you should give it a year and see how you feel then. I guarantee you, everything will seem different. You’ll want to live again. You’ll give up this crazy idea.”

The breathless feeling was fading. Drake again had control of himself. He waited patiently until Tom was finished, then nodded agreement.

“I’ll do as you say. I’ll get away from here for a while. But if it turns out that you are wrong — if I come back to you, in, say, eight or ten years, and I ask you again, will you do it? Will you help me? I want you to give me an honest answer, and I want your word on it.”