husiasts still applauded with vociferation, with mystic faith, with
sublime obstinacy. It was carrying on a sort of religious war against the
base apathy of the rest of the audience. It was determined to force its
belief down the throats of the unintelligent mob. It had made up its mind
that until it had had its way the world should stand still. No encore had
yet been obtained, and the gallery was set on an encore. The clapping
fainted, expired, and then broke into new life, only to expire again and
recommence. A few irritated persons hissed. The gallery responded with
vigour. Musa, having retired, reappeared, very white, and bowed. The
applause was feverish and unconvincing. Musa vanished. But the gallery had
thick soles and hard hands and stout sticks, even serviceable umbrellas. It
could not be appeased by bows alone. And after about three minutes of
tedious manoeuvring, Musa had at last to yield an encore that in fact
nobody wanted. He played a foolish pyrotechnical affair of De Beriot, which
resembled nothing so much as a joke at a funeral. After that the fate of
the concert could not be disputed even by the gallery. At the finish of the
evening there was, in the terrible idiom of the theatre, "not a hand."

Whether Musa had played well or ill, Audrey had not the least idea. Nor did
that point seem to matter. Naught but the attitude of the public seemed to
matter. This was strange, because for a year Audrey had been learning
steadily in the Quarter that the attitude of the public had no importance
whatever. She suffered from the delusion that the public was staring at her
and saying to her: "You, you silly little thing, are responsible for this
fiasco. We condescended to come--and this is what you have offered us. Go
home, and let your hair down and shorten your skirts, for you are no better
than a schoolgirl, after all." She was really self-conscious. She despised
Musa, or rather she threw to him a little condescending pity. And yet at
the same time she was furious against that group in the foyer for being so
easily dissuaded from going to see Musa in the artists' room.... Rats
deserting a sinking ship!... People, even the nicest, would drop a failure
like a match that was burning out.... Yes, and they would drop her.... No,
they would not, because of Mr. Gilman. Mr. Gilman was calling-to see her
to-morrow. He was the rock and the cushion. She would send Miss Ingate out
for the afternoon. As the audience hurried eage