Carnegie Hall gaped before Anne’s eyes, like the yawning jaws of some prehistoric monster. Knees quaking beneath her, she seated herself in the front of the box and motioned to her two companions to do likewise.

The crimson of excitement on her cheeks, emphasizing her creamy pallor, she rose from her sheath of almond-green velvet like a flame-crowned flower upon its stem. A cluster of gardenias fastened upon one shoulder, nestled against the warmer tints of her flesh.

“Anne, confess that you are nervous as the devil,” giggled Gerald, slipping into a seat behind her. “You look more like an American beauty than the gardenias you affect of late.” He glanced jealously at the flowers she was wearing.

Her flush deepened. Gardenias were Alexis’ favorite flower and he sent them to her daily. If she failed to wear them he was heart-broken.

“It is natural for Madame to be nervous to-night.” Caldenas interposed his plump person soothingly. “Mr. Petrovskey is her friend, is he not? And in a sense her protÉgÉ. It is only human to be a little excited now.”

Anne forced a grateful smile. But his reminder had increased her apprehension to the point of terror.

As she looked over the packed house she shuddered involuntarily. Before just such an audience as this had Alexis failed, an eager, anticipatory audience, filling every seat, overflowing into the foyer, into a standing mob. Only then it had been as soloist with the Philharmonic. To-night he was alone, unsupported except by his accompanist. And he had chosen to begin his recital with the very concerto upon which he had broken down, that haunting, melodious, most sensuous of concertos by Lalo, known as the Spanish. True, he had played it magnificently before her many times in the last few weeks. But she had always recoiled with instinctive superstition as his audacity in repeating it upon his very first reappearance before the public. Alexis had laughed at her fear scornfully. Without the concerto, his triumph would be only half a triumph, an admission of weakness, both to himself and to the public, and a very poor tribute to Anne who had given him back to the world.

As she recalled these words, she clenched her icy hands. A thrill of exultation coursed through her stage-fright. Yes, she was giving Alexis Petrovskey back to the world. Would the gift prove worthy?

But meanwhile there was a heightened stir in the audience; a rising murmur as of new-born and rushing wind in a dense forest. The next moment, volcanic applause shook the house. Applause full of enthusiasm and tribute, containing an undercurrent of sympathy which filled Anne’s eyes with a mist of tears.

Alexis and his accompanist had come on to the stage, and the American public was evincing not only its love of art, but its unconquerable tenderness of heart.

Through the mist of tears, Anne caught the brilliant gleam of Alexis’ eyes, as they eagerly sought her own. Now he was bowing to the vociferous house. Looking swiftly towards Anne’s box, he repeated his bow. The personal intent was unmistakable. As he turned to take the key from Paul Leon, a veritable battalion of opera-glasses was leveled upon Anne and her companions.

Faintness dragged her momentarily beneath the waves of consciousness. Her soul shrank within her. The picture of their entire intimacy from the first meeting in the hut to the present moment of exquisite apprehension flashed before her like a vision of the drowning. When she came to, the house lay silent beneath the first notes of the concerto.

All Anne’s fear had been for nothing. Alexis was playing as she had never heard him play before. The golden notes lingered upon the air, round with substance, light as a sunbeam dancing upon the wall. They soared toward the sky like iridescent birds, then swooped earthwards with the beat of celestial wings. Motionless, the life concentrated in his eyes and the rhythm of his bow, his chin caressing his violin as if it were a human thing, Alexis played with all the fire, the eloquence of a modern Orpheus waiting at the gates of Hades. His features slightly haggard from emotion and over-work, were Greek. The slim body as full of grace as the faun of Praxiteles. The drooping lids seemed to conceal a very fury of genius and inspiration.

The end of the first movement was met with clamorous applause. Staid old Carnegie Hall pulled its one foot out of the grave and donned the enthusiasm of youth. Nerves relaxed in happy abandon, Anne leaned back in her chair. A flood of joyous relief swept over her from head to foot. Yes, it had not been in vain. Alexis was truly great. She felt herself a creator. At last there was a reason for her having been born.

As Alexis flung himself into the next movement, she awakened to the house about her. She glanced at the nearest boxes and had a glimpse of Ellen and Olive, surrounded by black coats and gleaming shirt-fronts. Meeting Ellen’s eyes, she nodded gayly, then swept her opera-glasses across the house. A familiar face, surmounting a large and unwieldy body, caught her glance. It was Mme. Petrovskey. Although they had only met once, Anne would never forget that bland, doll-like countenance, with its cruelly undoll-like eyes. With an imperceptible shudder, she dropped her glasses into her lap. Mme. Petrovskey was unaccompanied by Claire. Was the girl ill? Or was it her own, Anne’s, presence which had kept her away? A familiar sensation of guilt overwhelmed her. She felt like a child-murderer, a trampler upon flowers. She had helped to ruin Claire’s life. An involuntary instrument of torture, the gods had manipulated her to the accompaniment of ironic laughter. The useless, the senseless tragedy of it all! If Alexis had only loved Claire, how different it would have been for them all. And yet would she, Anne, change it if she could? Would she be willing to relinquish into Claire’s feeble fingers the rapturous moments of the last few months, this present triumph? She believed she would. But who knows, least of all himself, what tenacious devil of jealousy and lust may not be lurking within his own subconscious fastness?

Leveling inscrutable eyes upon Mme. Petrovskey, she caught a return flash from the babyish blue orbs. They both bowed constrainedly.

From her refuge in the back row, Claire grasped Dr. Elliott’s arm. Her gaze, never long withdrawn from Anne’s box, had intercepted the bow between the two women on opposite sides of the house. Her cheeks, hitherto pale, flamed crimson.

The man beside her cursed inwardly. As he had feared, the whole thing was proving too much for the poor child. He was glad that he had insisted upon accompanying her. It would have been abominable to have permitted her to come alone. She ought not to be here as it was. The glamour of Petrovskey’s music was sufficient to unnerve her, let alone his triumph. As the magic notes floated out upon the air in a very fury of perfection, Claire’s companion wondered no longer at the hold that the player had obtained over her. He was just the sort of man that a woman would fall for. And having fallen, remain prostrate to be trampled upon at his will. And the creature had charm (damned if he hadn’t) a sort of melancholy charm—the charm that conceals discrepancies as a tropical vine flowers about a rotten stump. No, he did not blame Claire for being infatuated with the fellow. Settling back into his seat, he sighed resignedly.

The concerto ended upon a dramatic silence. It seemed as if the whole world were holding its breath. Then a storm of applause broke out. With a shock, shattering as thunder, rhythmic as the roll of gigantic drums, Alexis was recalled over and over again. Upon one of his returns a woman in the front row threw her bunch of violets on to the stage. They dropped at Alexis’ feet. He stooped, and picking them up, pressed them to his lips. The applause rose to a deafening crescendo. Cries of “bravo” punctuated the clamor shrilly. With a smile, Alexis placed the violets upon the piano, where he characteristically forgot them.

As Alexis made his last exit before the intermission, Dr. Elliott turned towards Claire. About to express enthusiastic, if unwilling praise of the performance, he stopped short at sight of her face. The small features were convulsed into a mask of agony. She was weeping softly, weakly, as if her very blood were seeping out with her tears.

“You must let me take you home at once,” he exclaimed under the general uproar.

Without a protest she followed him out into the aisle, “Yes,” she whispered, “I didn’t think that I would disgrace myself like this. I suppose I ought to have taken your advice and not come. But oh, I wanted to so much. I was so afraid for him, you know. I had a silly feeling that my love might help him, even if he didn’t care or know that I was there!” She sobbed beneath her breath. “But I see he didn’t need me after all,” she added, as they fought their way out into the lobby.

Anne’s impressions of the intermission were hazy. Barely conscious of the inroad of visitors upon her box, she answered their sallies with the mechanical ease of long habit. To Ellen’s repeated pleas that she should come down to MacDougal Alley and play poker after the concert, she was amiably curt. She had a headache. Ellen knew she detested cards. If Ellen suspected a reason for Anne’s refusal, she gave no hint. But her eyes rested upon the emerald pendant maliciously. She is going to meet him afterwards, she mused.

The last half of the program met with as vociferous an approval. The PrÉludium and Allegro of Pugnani, a serenade by Kreisler, some of Brahm’s Hungarian Dances were played as only a few can play them. A sonata of Schumann breathed exquisite tears.

After the concert was over, there was a clamor for encores. Pale, but exultant, Alexis was generous, and gave of his best. Laughing, dancing tunes, that sent everybody home happy.

As the last notes of a Wienawski waltz died away, he left the stage for the last time and the audience rose en masse and made for the exit. A chattering, excited throng, Anne regarded it through grateful tears.

“Well, shall we go? Or do you intend to spend all night in the sanctuary?” Gerald held out Anne’s chinchilla cape with a mocking glance. “Did the little tin god perform satisfactorily, or was she disappointed?”

She slipped into her cape with a nonchalant air.

“The little tin god is solid gold all the way through, I’m inclined to believe. But as he has descended from the altar, we might as well move along.”

“If you are not coming to MacDougal Alley, may I not see you home, Madame?” Caldenas bowed like a dignified cherub.

“Oh, no, thank you, Caldenas, please don’t trouble. After music like this I prefer to be alone. I’m sure you understand?”

She stepped to the railing and picked up her gloves and her opera glasses. As she did so, her eyes swept absently over the dispersing crowd and lighted upon a tall man almost directly beneath her. Something familiar about the cut of his head, the slope of his broad shoulders, penetrated her to the core. She leaned over the railing in sudden apprehension. As if in response, the man turned and their glances flamed to a focus.

With a confusion at once sickening and sweet, Anne found herself looking into the eyes of Vittorio Torrigiani. For a second, she felt as if all the blood in her body had seeped to her heart. Then it poured back in a crimson stream from her feet to the roots of her hair. An instinctive desire for flight overcame her. She turned and made for the back of the box, where Gerald was patiently waiting. Vittorio, how ghastly! How could she ever face him? And yet after that flaming interchange of glances, how could she let him go? She returned to the railing and called after the retreating figure softly. From the back of the box Gerald watched her in amazement.

“Vittorio?”

“Anne!”

A moment later and he stood within the box. He took her icy fingers in his and pressed them to his lips.

“I had not intended to have you see me,” he said quietly. “Please don’t think that I meant to intrude, cara. Only as I was passing by Carnegie Hall I saw the announcement of the concert. I couldn’t resist coming in, and perhaps catching a farewell glimpse of you.”

“A farewell glimpse?” Her voice faltered. He looked down at her longingly.

“Yes, I am sailing for Sicily in the morning.”

“So soon! Without even letting me know! How long have you been in New York?”

“I arrived from Mexico this morning. I didn’t think you would want to see me, cara. That is why I didn’t let you know. Besides—there are some things a man cannot bear,” he added beneath his breath so that Gerald wouldn’t hear.

“Vittorio!” Her whisper was broken. “I must see you before you go.”

His downcast face suddenly became eager.

“May I go home with you now, then?”

The crimson stain filtered back into her pale cheeks.

“No, Vittorio. I’m afraid not. I—shall not be free,” she finished with a little agonized rush.

The new radiance drained from his face as suddenly as it had come.

“Then we shall have to wait for another trip. Until you come to Florence perhaps?” Repressed suffering harshened his voice.

Humiliated to the point of anguish, she was about to acquiesce, when she encountered his tragic eyes.

“Why can’t you drive home with me? We will take a turn about the park and have a little talk. I—I have a message for your mother.”

His features relaxed a trifle. “Not the message she is hoping for, I fear,” he sighed.

In the corridor behind the box he greeted Gerald, who had retired there with unusual tact.

“I warn you, I’m eloping with the Marchese,” laughed Anne nervously. “He is sailing in the morning and it is our only chance for a chat. We’re going for a turn around the park. Isn’t it devilish of us?”

“Devilish selfish,” Gerald’s laugh rang forced. He followed them out into the lobby with sulky dignity.

As they threaded their way through the dwindling crowd upon the sidewalk, Anne met the imperturbable stare of a pair of China-blue eyes. A basilisk stare that fastened itself upon them as she and Vittorio entered her motor and drove away.