‘Where did he pick you up, my dear?’ the decayed diva inquired maternally.

Clarice briefly explained.

‘You aren’t paying him anything, are you?’

‘Oh, no!’ said Clarice, shocked.  ‘But I get no fee this time——­’

‘Of course not, my dear,’ the Lopez cut her short.  ’It’s all right so long as you aren’t paying him anything to let you go on.  Now run along.’

Clarice’s heart stopped.  The call-boy, with his cockney twang, had pronounced her name.

She moved forward, and, by dint of following the call-boy, at length reached the stage.  Applause—­good-natured applause—­seemed to roll towards her from the uttermost parts of the vast auditorium.  She realized with a start that this applause was exclusively for her.  She sat down to the piano, and there ensued a death-like silence—­a silence broken only by the striking of matches and the tinkle of the embowered fountain in front of the stage.  She had a consciousness, rather than a vision, of a floor of thousands of upturned faces below her, and tier upon tier of faces rising above her and receding to the illimitable dark distances of the gallery.  She heard a door bang, and perceived that some members of the orchestra were creeping quietly out at the back.  Then she plunged, dizzy, into the sonata, as into a heaving and profound sea.  The huge concert piano resounded under the onslaught of her broad hands.  When she had played ten bars she knew with an absolute conviction that she would do justice to her talent.  She could see, as it were, the entire sonata stretched out in detail before her like a road over which she had to travel....

At the end of the first movement the clapping enheartened her; she smiled confidently at the conductor, who, unemployed during her number, sat on a chair under his desk.  Before recommencing she gazed boldly at the house, and certain placards—­’Smoking permitted,’ ‘Emergency exit,’ ‘Ices,’ and ’Fancy Dress Balls’—­were fixed for ever on the retina of her eye.  At the end of the second movement there was more applause, and the conductor tapped appreciation with his stick against the pillar of his desk; the leader of the listless orchestra also tapped with his fiddle-bow and nodded.  It seemed to her now that she more and more dominated the piano, and that she rendered the great finale with masterful and fierce assurance....

She was pleased with herself as she banged the last massive chord.  And the applause, the clapping, the hammering of sticks, astounded her, staggered her.  She might have died of happiness while she bowed and bowed again.  She ran off the stage triumphant, and the applause seemed to assail her little figure from all quarters and overwhelm it.  As she stood waiting, concealed behind a group of palms, it suddenly occurred to her that, after all, she had underestimated herself.  She saw her rosy future as the spoiled darling of continental capitals.  The hail of clapping persisted, and the apparition of Otto violently waved her to return to the stage.  She returned, bowed her passionate exultation with burning face and trembling knees, and retired.  The clapping continued.  Yes, she would be compelled to grant an encore—­to grant one.  She would grant it like a honeyed but imperious queen.