played softly and tenderly; a large
tear formed now in each of his eyes, and presently trickled over the
swelling hillocks underneath his cheek bones. Coralie was smiling
placidly at Wetter, thinking him mad enough, but in no way put out by
his criticism.

"I can feel it," said Wetter, in a whimsically puzzled tone. "Why should
I feel it? I'm not young or beautiful, and my voice is the worse for
wear, because I've had to denounce the King so much. Nevertheless I can
feel it."

"You can make a big fool of yourself," observed Coralie, breaking into a
laugh and snatching her hands away from him.

"Yes, yes, yes, I should hope so," he cried. "She catches the point! Is
there hope? No, she won't make a fool of herself. There's no hope." He
sank into a chair with every appearance of dejection.

"I think it's supper-time," she said, moving toward the table. "What are
you still playing for?" she called to Struboff.

"Let him play," said I. "Perhaps he would rather play than sup."

"It's very likely," Coralie admitted with a shrug. Struboff looked at me
for a moment, and nodded solemnly. He was playing low now, giving a
plaintive turn to the music that had been joyful.

"No, you shall try it once again," cried Wetter, leaping up. "Once
again! A verse of it! I'll stand opposite to you. See, like this; and
I'll look at you. Now try!"

She was very good-natured with him, and did as he bade her. He took his
stand just by her, behind Struboff, and gazed into her face. I could see
him; his lips twitched, and his eyes were set on her in an ardour of
passion.

"Look in my eyes and sing!" he commanded.

"Ah, you're silly," she murmured in her pleasant lazy drawl. She threw
out her chest, and filled the room with healthy tuneful sound.

"Stop!" he cried. "Stop! I can endure no more of it. Can you eat? Yes,
you can eat. In God's name, come and eat, dear Coralie."

Coralie appealed to me.

"Don't you think I sing it very well?" she asked. "I can fill the Grand
Opera House quite easily."

"You sing it to perfection," said I. "There's nothing wrong, nothing at
all. Wetter here is mad."

"Wetter is certainly mad," echoed Varvilliers, rising from the sofa.

"Wetter is damned mad," said Wetter.

"Wetter is right--ah, so right," came in a despairing grumble from poor
Struboff, who still played away.

"To supper, to supper!" cried Wetter. "You're right, all of you. And I'm
right. And I'm mad. To supper! No, let Struboff play