Diotti's favorite, selected for the first number. As the
violinist turned to the conductor he faced slightly to the left and in
a direct line with the second proscenium box. His poise was admirable.
He was handsome, with the olive-tinted warmth of his southern
home--fairly tall, straight-limbed and lithe--a picture of poetic
grace. His was the face of a man who trusted without reserve, the
manner of one who believed implicitly, feeling that good was universal
and evil accidental.

As the music grew louder and the orchestra approached the peroration of
the preface of the coming solo, the violinist raised his head slowly.
Suddenly his eyes met the gaze of the solitary occupant of the second
proscenium box. His face flushed. He looked inquiringly, almost
appealingly, at her. She sat immovable and serene, a lace-framed vision
in white.

It was she who, since he had met her, only the night before, held his
very soul in thraldom.

He lifted his bow, tenderly placing it on the strings. Faintly came the
first measures of the theme. The melody, noble, limpid and beautiful,
floated in dreamy sway over the vast auditorium, and seemed to cast a
mystic glamour over the player. As the final note of the first movement
was dying away, the audience, awakening from its delicious trance,
broke forth into spontaneous bravos.

Mildred Wallace, scrutinizing the program, merely drew her wrap closer
about her shoulders and sat more erect. At the end of the concerto the
applause was generous enough to satisfy the most exacting virtuoso.
Diotti unquestionably had scored the greatest triumph of his career.
But the lady in the box had remained silent and unaffected throughout.

The poor fellow had seen only her during the time he played, and the
mighty cheers that came from floor and galleries struck upon his ear
like the echoes of mocking demons. Leaving the stage he hurried to his
dressing-room and sank into a chair. He had persuaded himself she
should not be insensible to his genius, but the dying ashes of his
hopes, his dreams, were smouldering, and in his despair came the
thought: "I am not great enough for her. I am but a man; her consort
should be a god. Her soul, untouched by human passion or human skill,
demands the power of god-like genius to arouse it."

Music lovers crowded into his dressing-room, enthusiastic in their
praises. Cards conveying delicate compliments written in delicate
chirography poured in upon him, but in v