man he met. "It's all true,"
he repeated. "You could do big things, Nan. And you do nothing."

Nan laughed, half-pleased, half-vexed.

"I think you overrate my capabilities."

"I don't. There are very few pianists who have your technique, and fewer
still, your soul and power of interpretation."

"Oh, yes, there are. Heaps. And they've got what I lack."

"And that is?"

"The power to hold their audience."

"You lack that? You who can hold a man--"

She broke in excitedly.

"Yes, I can hold one man--or woman. I can play to a few people and hold
them. I know that. But--I can't hold a crowd."

Rooke regarded her thoughtfully. Perhaps it was true that in spite of
her charm, of the compelling fascination which made her so
unforgettable--did he not know how unforgettable!--she yet lacked the
tremendous force of magnetic personality which penetrates through a whole
concourse of people, temperamentally differing as the poles, and carries
them away on one great tidal wave of enthusiasm and applause.

"It may be true," he said, at last, reluctantly. "I don't think you
possess great animal magnetism! Yours is a more elusive, more--how shall
I put it?--an attraction more spirituelle. . . . To those it touches,
worse luck, a more enduring one."

"More enduring?"

"Far more. Animal magnetism is a thing of bodily presence. Once one is
away from it--apart--one is free. Until the next meeting! But _your_
victims aren't even free from you when you're not there."

"It sounds a trifle boring. Like a visitor who never knows when it's
time to go."

Rooke smiled.

"You're trying to switch me off the main theme, which is your work."

She sprang up.

"Don't bully me any more," she said quickly, "and I'll play you one of my
recent compositions."

She sauntered across to the piano and began to play a little ripping
melody, full of sunshine and laughter, and though a sob ran through it,
it was smothered by the overlying gaiety. Rooke crossed to her side and
quietly lifted her hands from the keys.

"Charming," he said. "But it doesn't ring true. That was meant for a
sad song. As it stands, it's merely flippant--insincere. And
insincerity is the knell of art."

Nan skimmed the surface defiantly.

"What a disagreeable criticism! You might have given me some
encouragement instead of crushing my poor little attempt at composition
like that!"

Rooke looked at her gravely. With him, sincerity in art