everent. The sweep of an abnormal brow gave emphasis to the
sudden jut of deep eye sockets, and a dull, sallow skin gave emphasis
to the subtle sinister light, of the eyes themselves.

Pauline accepted the proffered arm of the artist, but daintily,
laughingly, she turned him back to the piano.

"You haven't yet escaped, Signor Baskinelli," she said. "We have not
yet heard 'Tivoli,' you know."

"Tivoli," he cried, with hands upraised in mock disdain. "Why, I wrote
the thing myself. Am I to violate even my own masterpieces?"

There was a twitter of mocking protest from the women. Baskinelli
began to play again.

"Pauline, may I speak to you--just a moment?" Harry's vexed voice
reached her ear as she stood beside the piano. She turned slowly and
looked into his bewildered, angry eyes.

"A little later--possibly," she answered, and instantly turned back
to Baskinelli.

From her no mask of music, no glamour of others' admiration could hide
the predatory obsequiousness of Baskinelli. She was not in the least
interested in Baskinelli. She had loathed him from the moment when she
had looked down on his little oily curls. But if Baskinelli had been
Beelzebub he would have enjoyed the favor of Pauline that evening--at
least, after Harry had arrived.

The glowing piquant beauty of Pauline enthralled Baskinelli. He had
never before seen a woman like her--innocent but astute, daring but
demure, brilliant but opalescent. When at last they strolled away
together into the conservatory his drawing room obeisances became
direct declarations of love.

Pauline began to be frightened.

She fluttered to the door of the conservatory. But there she paused.
Voices sounded from the end of a little rose-rimmed alley. They were
the voices of Harry and Lucille.

Baskinelli was at her side again.

"If I have said anything--done anything to offend," he said, with
affected contrition, "you will let me make my lowliest apologies, won't
you?"

Pauline hardly heard him. She was intently listening to the low
pitched voices.

"I--I think I will run back to the others," she cried suddenly.
Baskinelli was left alone.

"I congratulate you, Signor, on the success of the evening," said a
voice at his shoulder. "There are few among the famous who can conquer
drawing rooms as well as auditoriums."

The musician turned to face the ingratiating smile of Raymond Owen.

"I thank you--I thank you, sir. But I do not believe you.