e old: white-haired director had left his seat, and stood
waiting to speak to him. Both 'cellist and violinist had vanished on
the instant; the audience, eager as ever at the end of a concert to
shake off an imposed restraint, had risen while Maurice still played
the final notes; and, by this time, the hall was all but empty.

He slowly ascended the platform. Now that it was over, he felt how
tired he was; his very legs were tired, as though he had walked for
miles. The green-room was deserted; the gas-jet had been screwed down
to a peep. None of his friends had come to say a word to him. He had
really hardly expected it; but, all the same, a hope had lurked in him
that Krafft would perhaps afterwards make some sign--even Madeleine.
As, however, neither of them appeared, he seemed to read a confirmation
of his failure in their absence, and he loitered for some time in the
semi-darkness, unwilling to face the dispersing crowd. When at length
he went down the passage, only a few stragglers remained. One or two
acquaintances congratulated him in due form, but he knew neither well
enough to try to get at the truth. As he was nearing the street-door,
however, Dove came out of the BUREAU. He made for Maurice at once; his
manner was eager, his face bore the imprint of interesting news.

"I say, Guest!" he cried, while still some way off. "An odd
coincidence. Young Leumann is to play this very same trio next week. A
little chap in knickerbockers, you know--pupils of Rendel's. He is said
to have a glorious LEGATO--just the very thing for the VARIATIONS."

"Indeed?" said Maurice with a well-emphasised dryness. His tone nudged
Dove's memory.

"By the way, all congratulations, of course," he hastened to add.
"Never heard you play better. Especially the MENUETTO. Some people
sitting behind me were reminded of Rubinstein."

"Well, good-night, I'm off," said Maurice, and, even as he spoke, he
shot away, leaving his companion in some surprise.

Once out of Dove's sight, he took off his hat and passed his hand over
his forehead. Any slender hope he might have had was now crushed; his
playing had been so little remarkable that even Dove had been on the
point of overlooking it altogether.

Louise threw herself into his arms. At last! she exulted to herself.
But his greeting had not its usual fervour; instead of kissing her, he
laid his face against her hair. Instantly, she became uncertain. She
did not quite know what she had been