went out.

[1] A small glass of brandy.

[2] "The devil take you!"

CHAPTER III

Velasco sat in his Studio before the great tiled fire-place, dreaming,
with his violin across his knees. His servant had gone to bed and he
was alone.

The coals burned brightly, and the lamp cast a golden, radiant light on
the rug at his feet, rich-hued and jewel tinted as the stained rose
windows of Notre Dame. Tapestries hung from the walls, a painting here
and there, a few engravings. In the centre stood an Erard, a
magnificent concert-grand, open, with music strewn on its polished lid
in a confusion of sheets; some piled, some fluttering loose, still
others flung to the floor where a chance breeze, or a careless hand,
may have scattered them. Near it was the exquisite bronze figure of a
young satyr playing the flute, the childish arms and limbs, round and
molded, glowing rosy and warm in the lamp light. In one corner was a
violin stand, a bow tossed heedlessly across it; and all about were
boxes, half packed and disordered. The curtains were drawn. The
malachite clock on the mantel-piece was striking two.

Velasco stirred suddenly and his dark head turned from the fire light,
moving restlessly against the cushions. He was weary. The applause,
the uproar of the Mariinski was still in his ears; before his eyes
danced innumerable notes, tiny and black, the sound of them boring into
his brain.

"Ye gods--ye gods!"

The young Violinist sprang up and began pacing the room, pressing his
hands to his eyes to drive away the notes, humming to himself to get
rid of the sound, the theme, the one haunting, irrepressible motive.
He walked up and down, lighting one cigarette after the other, puffing
once, twice, and then hurling it half-smoked into the coals.

Every little while he stopped and seemed to be listening. Then he went
back to his seat before the fire-place and flinging himself down began
to play, a few bars at a time, stopping and listening, then playing
again. As he played, his eyes grew dreamy and heavy, the brows seemed
to press upon them until they drooped under the lids, and his dark hair
fell like a screen.

When he stopped, a strange, moody look came over his face and he
frowned, tapping the rug nervously with his foot. Sometimes he held
the violin between his knees, playing on it as on a cello; then he
caught it to his breast again in a sudden fury of improvisation--an
arpeggio, light and runni