capable of illusions. And Audrey agreed
with Dauphin. And while she was agreeing she kept saying to herself: "Why
do I pretend to agree with him? He is not sincere. He knows he is not
sincere. We all know--except perhaps Winnie Ingate. The concert is a
failure. If it were not a failure, Madame Foa would not be so sympathetic.
She is more subtle even than Madame Piriac. I shall never be subtle like
that. I wish I could be. I wish I was at Moze. I am too Essex for all this.
And Winnie here is too comic for words."

An aged and repellent Jew came into sight. He raised Madame Foa's hand to
his odious lips and kissed it, and Audrey wondered how Madame Foa could
tolerate the formality.

"Well, Monsieur Xavier?"

Xavier shrugged his round shoulders.

"Do not say," said he, in a hoarse voice to the company, "do not say that I
have not done my best on this occasion." He lifted his eyes heavenward, and
as he did so his passing glance embraced Audrey, and she violently hated
him.

"Winnie," said she, "I think we ought to be getting back to our seats."

"But," cried Madame Foa, "we are going round with Dauphin to the artists'
room. You do not come with us, Madame Moncreiff?"

"In your place ..." muttered Xavier discouragingly, with a look at Dauphin,
and another shrug of the shoulders. "I have been ..."

"Ah!" said Dauphin, in a strange new tone. And then very brightly to
Audrey: "Now, as to Saturday, dear lady----"

Xavier engaged in private converse with Foa, and his demeanour to Foa was
extremely deferential, whereas he almost ignored the Oriental critic. And
Audrey puzzled her head once again to discover why the Foas should exert
such influence upon the fate of music in Paris. The enigma was only one
among many.

CHAPTER XLIV

END OF THE CONCERT

The first item after the true interval was the Chaconne of Bach, which Musa
had played upon a memorable occasion in Frinton. He stood upon the platform
utterly alone, against a background of empty chairs, double-basses and
drums. He seemed to be unfriended and forlorn. It appeared to Audrey that
he was playing with despair. She wished, as she looked from Musa to the
deserted places in the body of the hall, that the piece was over, and that
the entire concert was over. How could anyone enjoy such an arid maze of
sounds? The whole theory of classical composition and its vogue was hollow
and ridiculous. People did not like the classics; they could not and they
neve