e resemblance of intervals to wet
blankets, extinguishers, palls and hostile critics. The Allegro movement of
the Concerto was a real success, and the audience as a whole would have
applauded even more if the gallery in particular had not applauded so much.
The second or Larghetto movement was also a success, but to a less degree.
As for the third and last movement, it put the gallery into an ecstasy
while leaving the floor in possession of full critical faculties. Musa
retired and had to return, and when he returned the floor good-humouredly
joined the vociferous gallery in laudations, and he had to return again.
Then the interminable interval. Silence! Murmurings! Silence! Creepings
towards exits! And in many, very many hearts the secret trouble question:
"Why are we here? What have we come for? What is all this pother about art
and genius? Honestly, shall we not be glad and relieved when the solemn old
thing is over?"... And the desolating, cynical indifference of the
conductor and the orchestra! Often there is a clearer vision of the truth
during the intervals of a classical concert than on a deathbed.

Audrey was extremely depressed in the interval after the Beethoven Concerto
and before the Lalo. But she was not depressed by the news of the accident
to the Zacatecas Oil Corporation in which was the major part of her wealth.
The tidings had stunned rather than injured that part of her which was
capable of being affected by finance. She had not felt the blow. Moreover
she was protected by the knowledge that she had thousands of pounds in hand
and also the Moze property intact, and further she was already
reconsidering her newly-acquired respect for money. No! What depressed her
was a doubt as to the genius of Musa. In the long dreadful pause it seemed
impossible that he should have genius. The entire concert presented itself
as a grotesque farce, of which she as its creator ought to be ashamed. She
was ready to kill Xavier or his responsible representative.

Then she saw the tall and calm Rosamund, with her grey hair and black
attire and her subduing self-complacency, making a way between the rows of
stalls towards her.

"I wanted to see you," said Rosamund, after the formal greetings. "Very
much." Her voice was as kind and as unrelenting as the grave.

At this point Miss Ingate ought to have yielded her seat to the terrific
Rosamund, but she failed to do so, doubtless by inadvertence.

"Will you come into the