while
Diaz held that imperious, compelling note, he turned his face slightly
from the piano and gazed at me. Several times since the first time our
eyes had met, by accident as I thought. But this was a deliberate seeking
on his part. Again I flushed hotly. Again I had the terrible shudder of
joy. I feared for a moment lest all the Five Towns was staring at me,
thus singled out by Diaz; but it was not so: I had the wit to perceive
that no one could remark me as the recipient of that hurried and burning
glance. He had half a dozen bars to play, yet his eyes did not leave
mine, and I would not let mine leave his. He remained moveless while the
last chord expired, and then it seemed to me that his gaze had gone
further, had passed through me into some unknown. The applause startled
him to his feet.

My thought was: 'What can he be thinking of me?... But hundreds of women
must have loved him!'

In the interval an attendant came on to the platform and altered the
position of the piano. Everybody asked: 'What's that for?' For the new
position was quite an unusual one; it brought the tail of the piano
nearer to the audience, and gave a better view of the keyboard to the
occupants of the seats in the orchestra behind the platform. 'It's a
question of the acoustics, that's what it is,' observed a man near me,
and a woman replied: 'Oh, I see!'

When Diaz returned and seated himself to play the Berceuse, I saw that he
could look at me without turning his head. And now, instead of flushing,
I went cold. My spine gave way suddenly. I began to be afraid; but of
what I was afraid I had not the least idea. I fixed my eyes on my
programme as he launched into the Berceuse. Twice I glanced up, without,
however, moving my head, and each time his burning blue eyes met mine.
(But why did I choose moments when the playing of the piece demanded less
than all his attention?) The Berceuse was a favourite. In sentiment it
was simpler than the great pieces that had preceded it. Its excessive
delicacy attracted; the finesse of its embroidery swayed and enraptured
the audience; and the applause at the close was mad, deafening, and
peremptory. But Diaz was notorious as a refuser of encores. It had been
said that he would see a hall wrecked by an angry mob before he would
enlarge his programme. Four times he came forward and acknowledged the
tribute, and four times he went back. At the fifth response he halted
directly in front of me, and in his bo