y the end of the first part of the
concert, when she came on to sing an Italian aria.

"More beautiful than ever!" was Hubert's first reflection. "More
beautiful than I remembered her! Is she nervous? No, I think not. Her
face will take the town if her voice does not." And then he settled
himself to listen. He was far more nervous than Cynthia herself or than
Madame della Scala, who was keeping time to the music with her fan
behind the screen.

Cynthia's beauty, of an unusually striking order, was heightened by an
excitement which lent new color to her cheeks, new fire to her eyes. She
was dressed in very pale yellow--white had been rejected as not so
becoming to her dark skin as a more decided tint--and she wore a cluster
of scarlet flowers on her left shoulder. She looked like some brilliant
tropical bird or butterfly--a thing of light and color, to whom sunlight
was as essential as food. Hubert felt vain of his _protegee_ as he heard
the little murmur of applause that greeted her appearance.

But the applause that followed her singing swamped every other
manifestation of approval. Cynthia surpassed herself. Her voice and her
method of singing were infinitely improved; the sweet high notes were
sweeter than ever, and were full of an exquisite thrill of feeling which
struck Hubert as something new in her musical development. There was no
doubt about her success. No other singer had roused the audience to such
a pitch of excitement and admiration.

Hubert glanced at Madame della Scala. She was sitting with her hands
folded, a placid smile of achievement upon her lips; she had produced
all the impression that she wished to make, and for once was completely
satisfied. Hubert read it in her look.

Cynthia was curtseying to the audience, when, for the first time, Hubert
caught her eye--or rather it was for the first time only that she
allowed him to see that she observed him; as a matter of fact, she had
been conscious of his presence ever since she entered the concert-room.
She flashed a quick smile at him, bowed openly in his direction, and--as
if by accident--touched the belt of her dress. He was quick enough to
see what she meant; some flowers from his bouquet were fastened at her
waist. He half rose from his seat, involuntarily, and almost as if he
wanted to join her on the platform, then sat down again, vexed at his
own movement, and blushing like a schoolboy. He did not know what had
come to him, he told himself