n, we will take compassion on each other and keep each other
company--at least till you have to play. I suppose you are on the
programme."

"I believe so. My agent, Mosenstein, is arranging matters, and he will
tell me when I am wanted."

"Very well; until that moment arrives we can sit still and chat. I
don't know very many people either: just a few artists who have
appeared at my house. The Princess Zouroff sometimes comes, but she is
not here to-night. Some evenings, of course very late, it is as good
as one of Paul Degraux's concerts, when all the great stars have come
on. About one o'clock in the morning they begin to warble and outplay
each other. Of course you know Mrs. Raby married the greatest pianist
of his day. They perform for her out of camaraderie."

They talked for a little time, when the Countess suddenly exclaimed:
"Ah, there is somebody from my own world, the Baron Salmoros. There is
such, a crush, he does not see me. Do you know him?"

Nello's breath came quickly. "No, Madame, but at the moment he is the
one man in the world that I particularly want to know."

Lady Glendover looked at him sharply, but she was too polite to
inquire the cause of his sudden agitation.

"I will introduce you to him with pleasure; but it is no use running
after him in this crowd, we shall never catch him. I know his methods,
he comes here very often, he is a great _amateur_. He will exchange
greetings with the many artists he knows, making a tour of the rooms,
and then he will see me and come to a halt in front of us."

Lady Glendover's prognostication of the Baron's movements was a
correct one. After what seemed to Nello, watching his slow progress
round the room, an interminable period, Salmoros stopped before them
and bowed over the Countess's outstretched hand.

"Delighted to see you, dear lady. I have just met Mosenstein, who
always arranges the programme. There are not so many stars as usual
to-night, but he promises us some very good music."

While he was speaking the young Italian took stock of the great
financier. A massive head, surmounted with a mass of snow-white hair,
a patriarchal beard of the same hue, a tall, sturdy figure. Nello
guessed his age at seventy, but the brightness of his glance, the
upright form, gave little sign of age. He went by the evidence of the
snow-white hair and beard.

After a brief conversation the Countess turned to young Corsini.

"This gentleman wishes to make your acq