to love as I
love you? It would kill me to have anything come in between us."

Startled by her overwrought nerves, he put his arm around her and drew
her head against his shoulder.

"I know only one thing, Beatrix," he said gravely; "nothing now can come
between us but death."

Diamond aigrettes and critical ears both were at the concert, that
night, mingled with a fair sprinkling of those to whom the charity
appealed far more than did the mere musical and worldly phases of the
affair. The little folded programmes were in a way typical of the whole
situation: one page containing the modest announcement of the Fresh Air
Fund concert, the next one the simple statement of the numbers of the
programme, while the third, in full-faced type bore the majestic list of
patronesses. Between his German and Italian fellow artists and his
polysyllabic Dutch sponsors, Thayer's name stood out in all the
aggressiveness of Puritan simplicity.

As a whole, the concert was as frothy as was the audience. The songs
glittered like the diamonds, and the orchestra played the _Valkyries'
Ride_ with a cheerful abandonment of mirth.

"Thayer is the only dignified member of the company," Bobby growled into
Sally's ears, as the last note of his aria died away. "The rest of them
are doing tricks like a set of vaudeville artists. I expected that
violinist to play cadenzas with his violin held in the air above his
head. You don't catch Thayer dropping into such trick work."

"He doesn't need to; he can 'scorn such a foe' to his heart's content,
for he is getting the applause of the evening. Does he sing again?"

"The very last number. It is an unusual place, to wind up a programme
after the orchestra is through; but I think he is equal to it."

Beatrix felt every nerve in her body tingling and throbbing, when Thayer
came out on the stage for the second time. As a whole, the concert had
not been inspiring to her; it had been too obviously popular. Yet, at
least, it had tended to relax her strained nerves. Gade concertos are a
species of mental gruel, easy to assimilate and none too stimulating;
but all the innate barbarism of humanity, all of her nervous force
responded to the clashing rhythm of the Slavonic Dance, and the swift
color came into her face and focussed itself in a tiny circle in either
cheek, as she listened. For the moment, she was as fiercely defiant of
fate as a Valkyrie flying forth to battle.

The mood was still upon her, a