There was perfect silence
in the vast assembly. In a few seconds the pianist would strike the
opening chords, and Nello Corsini, the unknown violinist, must justify
the faith that had been placed in him by Paul Degraux.

He felt sick and a little faint. As he looked dimly into that vast sea
of expectant faces, he realised the ordeal to which he was exposed. In
the little room in Dean Street, with Papa Peron and his worshipping
sister for an audience, it was not difficult to feel at ease, to pour
out his artistic soul. Even to Gay and Degraux, in the privacy of
their apartments, he had given of his best.

But to-night he was before a vast audience, critical and fastidious.
Had they not already sampled many executants, many equal to himself,
not a few superior?

The salient episodes of his later life floated before him. His meeting
with Papa Peron, his introduction to Gay, the placid evenings when he
had played at the Parthenon for a small wage, his accident and the
miserable days that had supervened, his desperate visit to the
powerful Degraux, the marvellous success of that interview. And behind
the recollection of all this, the memory of that dreadful time when
he had played in the streets for a few wretched coppers to keep
himself and his sister from want.

But to-night he was playing for fame and fortune, through the lucky
chance of the great Bauquel's absence. If he made good to-night, if he
could secure the plaudits of this fashionable crowd, coppers would no
longer be his portion, but sovereigns and Bank of England notes.

It was a brilliant assembly. In the Royal box sat the Queen of
England, with the Prince and Princess of Wales. Peers and Peeresses
were there by the dozen. Every other person was more or less
distinguished. This was no audience gathered from the corners of
mean streets.

As the pianist struck the opening chords, the mist cleared from the
young man's brain. Those upturned faces which met his fascinated gaze
were no longer charged with cold hostility, but full of friendliness,
of welcome to a new and untried artist. He drew his bow caressingly
across the strings, and began.

The last plaintive notes died away--he had chosen to open with an
exquisite romance of Greig's. The applause was sincere, but it was not
fervent. Degraux, standing anxiously in the wings, had to admit that
it was not fervent. And then, suddenly, Bauquel's noisy _claque_ burst
forth in a storm of hisses. They were pai