e had
"guessed, of course." And seeing that Audrey had only interviewed a concert
agent once--and he a London concert agent with relations in Paris--and
that she had never uttered a word about the affair to anybody except Mr.
Foulger, who had been keeping an eye on the expenditure, it was not
improbable that Tommy had just guessed. But she had guessed right. She was
an uncanny woman. "Have you ever spoken to Musa about--it?" Audrey had
passionately demanded; and Tommy had answered also passionately: "Of course
not. I'm a white woman all through. Haven't you learnt that yet?"

The taxi, although it was a horse-taxi and incapable of moving at more than
five miles an hour, reached the Rue Cassette, which was on the other side
of the river and quite a long way off, in no time. That is to say, Audrey
was not aware that any time had passed. She had received the address from
Tommy, for it was a new address, Musa having admittedly risen in the world.
The house was an old one; it had a curious staircase, with china knobs on
the principal banisters of the rail, and crimson-tasselled bell cords at
all the doors of the flats. Musa lived at the summit of it. Audrey arrived
there short of breath, took the crimson-tasselled cord in her hand to pull,
and then hesitated in order to think.

Why had she come? The response was clear. She had come solely because she
hated to see a job botched, and there was not a moment to lose if it was
not to be botched. She had come, not because she had the slightest
sympathetic interest in Musa--on the contrary, she was coldly angry with
him--but because she had a horror of fiascos. She had found a genius who
needed financing, and she, possessing some tons of money, had financed him,
and she did not mean to see an ounce of her money wasted if she could help
it. Her interest in the affair was artistic and impersonal, and none other.
It was the duty of wealthy magnates to foster art, and she was fostering
art, and she would have the thing done neatly and completely, or she would
know the reason. Fancy a rational creature making a scene at a final
rehearsal and swearing that he would not play, and then bolting! It was
monstrous! People really did not do such things. Assuredly no artist had
ever done such a thing before. Artists who had a concert all to themselves
invariably appeared according to advertised promise. An artist who was only
one among several in a programme might fall ill and fail to appear, f