ious trance, broke forth into spontaneous bravos.

Mildred Wallace, scrutinizing the program, merely drew her wrap closer
about her shoulders and sat more erect. At the end of the concerto the
applause was generous enough to satisfy the most exacting _virtuoso_.
Diotti unquestionably had scored the greatest triumph of his career.
But the lady in the box had remained silent and unaffected throughout.

The poor fellow had seen only her during the time he played, and the
mighty cheers that came from floor and galleries struck upon his ear
like the echoes of mocking demons. Leaving the stage he hurried to his
dressing-room and sank into a chair. He had persuaded himself she
should not be insensible to his genius, but the dying ashes of his
hopes, his dreams, were smouldering, and in his despair came the
thought: "I am not great enough for her. I am but a man; her consort
should be a god. Her soul, untouched by human passion or human skill,
demands the power of god-like genius to arouse it."

Music lovers crowded into his dressing-room, enthusiastic in their
praises. Cards conveying delicate compliments written in delicate
chirography poured in upon him, but in vain he looked for some sign,
some word from her.

Quickly he left the theater and sought his hotel.

A menacing cloud obscured the wintry moon. A clock sounded the
midnight hour.

He threw himself upon the bed and almost sobbed his thoughts, and
their burden was:

"I am not great enough for her. I am but a man. I am but a man!"

III

Perkins called in the morning. Perkins was happy--Perkins was
positively joyous, and Perkins was self-satisfied. The violinist had
made a great hit. But Perkins, confiding in the white-coated dispenser
who concocted his _matin Martini_, very dry, an hour before, said he
regarded the success due as much to the management as to the artist.
And Perkins believed it. Perkins usually took all the credit for a
success, and with charming consistency placed all responsibility for
failure on the shoulders of the hapless artist.

When Perkins entered Diotti's room he found the violinist heavy-eyed
and dejected. "My dear Signor," he began, showing a large envelope
bulging with newspaper clippings, "I have brought the notices. They
are quite the limit, I assure you. Nothing like them ever heard
before--all tuned in the same key, as you musical fellows would say,"
and Perkins cocked his eye.

Perkins enjoyed a glorious reputation