t was as if untold hours had passed over him in a body, like a
flight of birds; as if a sudden gulf had gaped between where he now was
and where he had previously stood.

Dismissed curtly, with a word, he hung about the corridor in the hope
of seeing her again; but the piano went on and on, unceasingly. Here,
after some time, he was found by Dove, who carried him off with loud
expressions of surprise.

The concert was more than half over. The main part of the hall was
brightly lit and full of people: from behind, one looked across a sea
of heads. On the platform at the other end, a girl in red was playing a
sonata; a master sat by her side, and leant forward, at regular
intervals, to turn the leaves of the music. Dove and Maurice remained
standing at the back, under the gallery, among a portion of the
audience which shifted continuously: those about them wandered in and
out of the hall at pleasure, now inside, head in hand, critically
intent, now out in the vestibule, stretching their legs, lounging in
easy chat. In the pause that followed the sonata, Dove went towards the
front, to join some ladies who beckoned him, and, while some one sang a
noisy aria, Maurice gave himself up to his own thoughts. They all led
to the same point: how he should contrive to see her again, how he
should learn her name, and, beside them, everything else seemed remote,
unreal; he saw the people next him as if from a distance. But in a wait
that was longer than usual, he was awakened to his surroundings: a stir
ran over the audience, like a gust of wind over still water; the heads
in the seats before him inclined one to another, wagged and nodded;
there was a gentle buzz of voices. Behind him, the doors opened and
shut, letting in all who were outside: they pressed forward
expectantly. On his left, a row of girls tried to start a round of
applause and tittered nervously at their failure. Schilsky had come
down the platform and commenced tuning. He bent his long, thin body as
he pressed his violin to his knee, and his reddish hair fell over his
face. The accompanist, his hands on the keys, waited for the signal to
begin.

Maurice drew a deep breath of anticipation. But the first shrill, sweet
notes had hardly cut the silence, when, the door opening once more,
some one entered and pushed through the standing crowd. He looked
round, uneasy at the disturbance, and found that it was she: what is
more, she came up to his very side. He turned aw