ombed her very life.

The man's love of paradox had piqued him to select this deaf woman; he
confessed to his intimate friends that the ideal companion for a
musician was one who could never hear him practise his piano. She
rapidly made a request in her little voice, the faded voice of the deaf:
"Can't I go to the concert with you? Oh, do not put me off. I am crazy
to see you play, to see the public." He drew back at once. "If you go
you will make me nervous--and the recital is sold out," he signalled.
She regarded him steadily. "Your art usually ends in the box-office."
They drank their coffee sadly. Leaving her with a pad upon which he had
scribbled "Patience, Fatima, wife of Bluebeard!" Belus went to his
concert, she to her hushed dreams....

II

Zora drowsed on the balcony. The park was a great, shapeless, soft
flowing river of trees over which the tall stars hung, while the
creeping plumes of rhythmic steam, and the earthly echoes of light from
the flat-faced hotels on the west side set her wondering if any one
really stayed at home when Belus played Chopin. No one but herself, she
bitterly thought. Her mood turned jealous. His magnetism, her husband's
magnetism, that vast reservoir upon which floated the souls of many,
like tiny lamps set adrift upon the bosom of the Ganges by pious
Mohammedan widows, must it ever be free to all but herself? Must she,
who worshipped at his secret shrine, share her adoration, her idol, with
the first sentimental school girl? It was revolting. She would bear with
it no longer. The ride through the park cooled her blood and eased her
headache. Just to be nearer to him; that might set her throbbing nerves
at rest. As if she had been cut off from the big central current of
life, so this woman suffered during the absence of her husband. In
trance-like condition she stepped out of the carriage, and slowly
walked down Seventh avenue. When Fifty-sixth Street was reached, she
turned eastward and went up the few steps that led into the artists'
room.

A man half staggered by her at the dimly lighted door, but steadied
himself when he saw her.

"I am Madame Belus," she said in her pretty English streaked with soft
Magyar cadences. He stared at her, and she thought him crazy. "All
right, ma'am," he said after a pause. His speech was thick, yet he was
not drunk; it was more the behavior of a drug eater.

"Don't go back there, lady!" he begged, "don't go back to the professor.
He is do