“Dare we ask you?” said Madame Piriac to the youth, offering him the violin case.  Her supplicatory tone and attitude, though they were somewhat assumed, proved to what a height Musa had recently risen as a personage.

He hesitated, leaning against the rail and nervously fingering it.

“I know it is a great deal to ask.  But you would give us so much pleasure,” said Madame Piriac.

Musa replied in a dry, curt voice: 

“I should prefer not to play.”

“Oh!  But Musa—­” There was a general protest.

“I cannot play,” Musa exclaimed with impatience, and moved almost savagely away.

The experience was novel for Madame Piriac, left standing there, as it were, respectfully presenting the violin case to the rail.  This beautiful and not unpampered lady was accustomed to see her commands received as an honour; and when she condescended to implore, the effect usually was to produce a blissful and deprecatory confusion in the person besought.  Her husband and Mr. Gilman had for a number of years been teaching her that whatever she desired was the highest good and the most complete felicity to everybody concerned in the fulfilment of the desire.  She bore the blow from Musa admirably, keeping both her smile and her dignity, and with one gesture excusing Musa to all beholders as a capricious and a sensitive artist in whom moodiness was lawful.  It was exquisitely done.  It could not have been better done.  But not even Madame Piriac’s extreme skill could save the episode from having the air of a social disaster.  The gaiety which had been too feverishly resumed after the salvage of the yacht from the sandbank expired like a pricked balloon.  People silently vanished, and only Audrey was left on the after deck.

It was after a long interval that she became aware of the reappearance of Musa.  Seemingly, he had been in the engine-room; since the beginning of the cruise he had shown a fancy for both the engine-room and the engineer.  To her surprise, he marched straight towards her deckchair.

“I must speak to you,” he said with emotion.

“Must you?” Audrey replied, full of hot resentment.  “I think you’ve been horrid, Musa.  Perfectly horrid!  But I suppose you have your own notions of politeness now.  Everything has been done for you, and—­”

“What is that?” he stopped her.  “Everything has been done for me.  What is it that has been done for me?  I play for years, I am ignored.  Then I succeed.  I am noticed.  Men of affairs offer me immense sums.  But am I surprised?  Not the least in the world.  It is the contrary which would have surprised me.  It was inevitable that I should succeed.  But note well—­it is I myself who succeed.  It is not my friends.  It is not the concert agent.  Do I regard the concert agent as a benefactor?  Again, not the least in the world.  You say everything has been done for me.  Nothing has been done for me, Madame.”