take her glance away. She had refused her aunt's companionship. It might
irritate Fiorsen and affect his playing to see her with "that stiff
English creature." She wanted, too, to feel again the sensations of
Wiesbaden. There would be a kind of sacred pleasure in knowing that she
had helped to perfect sounds which touched the hearts and senses of so
many listeners. She had looked forward to this concert so long. And she
sat scarcely breathing, abstracted from consciousness of those about
her, soft and still, radiating warmth and eagerness.

Fiorsen looked his worst, as ever, when first coming before an
audience--cold, furtive, defensive, defiant, half turned away, with
those long fingers tightening the screws, touching the strings. It
seemed queer to think that only six hours ago she had stolen out of bed
from beside him. Wiesbaden! No; this was not like Wiesbaden! And when he
played she had not the same emotions. She had heard him now too often,
knew too exactly how he produced those sounds; knew that their fire and
sweetness and nobility sprang from fingers, ear, brain--not from his
soul. Nor was it possible any longer to drift off on those currents of
sound into new worlds, to hear bells at dawn, and the dews of evening
as they fell, to feel the divinity of wind and sunlight. The romance and
ecstasy that at Wiesbaden had soaked her spirit came no more. She was
watching for the weak spots, the passages with which he had struggled
and she had struggled; she was distracted by memories of petulance,
black moods, and sudden caresses. And then she caught his eye. The
look was like, yet how unlike, those looks at Wiesbaden. It had the old
love-hunger, but had lost the adoration, its spiritual essence. And she
thought: 'Is it my fault, or is it only because he has me now to do what
he likes with?' It was all another disillusionment, perhaps the greatest
yet. But she kindled and flushed at the applause, and lost herself in
pleasure at his success. At the interval, she slipped out at once, for
her first visit to the artist's room, the mysterious enchantment of a
peep behind the scenes. He was coming down from his last recall; and at
sight of her his look of bored contempt vanished; lifting her hand, he
kissed it. Gyp felt happier than she had since her marriage. Her eyes
shone, and she whispered:

"Beautiful!"

He whispered back:

"So! Do you love me, Gyp?"

She nodded. And at that moment she did, or thought so.

Then