dazzling career of herself and Mr. Gilman when their respective fortunes should be joined together.  And she mysteriously saw Mr. Gilman’s face again, and that too was pathetic.  Everything was pathetic.  She alone seemed to be hard, dominating, overbearing.  Her conscience waked to fresh activity.  Was she losing her soul?  Where were her ideals?  Could she really work in full honesty for the feminist cause as the wife of a man like Mr. Gilman?  He was adorable:  she felt in that moment that she had a genuine affection for him; but could Mrs. Gilman challenge the police, retort audaciously upon magistrates, and lie in prison?  In a word, could she be a martyr?  Would Mr. Gilman, with all his amenability, consent?  Would she herself consent?  Would it not be ridiculous?  Thus her flying, shamed thoughts in front of the waiting Musa!

“Then you aren’t ill?” she began.

“Ill!” he exclaimed.  “Why do you wish that I should be ill?”

As he answered her he removed his open fiddle case, with the violin inside it, from the Louis Quatorze chair, and signed to her to sit down.  She sat down.

“I heard that—­this morning—­at the rehearsal——­”

“Ah!  You have heard that?”

“And I thought perhaps you were ill.  So I came to see.”

“What have you heard?”

“Frankly, Musa, it is said that you said you would not play to-night.”

“Does it concern you?”

“It concerns everyone....  And you have been so good lately.”

“Ah!  I have been good lately.  You have heard that.  And did you expect me to continue to be good when you returned to Paris and passed all your days in public with that antique and grotesque Monsieur Gilman?  All the world sees you.  I myself have seen you.  It is horrible.”

She controlled herself.  And the fact that she was intensely flattered helped her to do so.

“Now Musa,” she said, firmly and kindly, as on previous occasions she had spoken to him.  “Do be reasonable.  I refuse to be angry, and it is impossible for you to insult me, however much you try.  But do be reasonable.  Do think of the future.  We are all wishing for your success.  We shall all be there.  And now you say you aren’t going to play.  It is really too much.”

“You have perhaps bought tickets,” said Musa, and a flush gradually spread over his cheeks.  “You have perhaps bought tickets, and you are afraid lest you have been robbed.  Tranquillise yourself, Madame.  If you have the least fear, I will instruct my agent to reimburse you.  And why should I not play?  Naturally I shall play.  Accept my word, if you can.”  He spoke with an icy and convincing decision.

“Oh, I’m so glad!” Audrey murmured.

“What right have you to be glad, Madame?  If you are glad it is your own affair.  Have I troubled you since we last met?  I need the sympathy of nobody.  I am assured of a large audience.  My impresario is excessively optimistic.  And if this is so, I owe it to none but myself.  You speak of insults.  Permit me to say that I regard your patronage as an insult.  I have done nothing, I imagine, to deserve it.  I crack my head to divine what I have done to deserve it.  You hear some silly talk about a rehearsal and you precipitate yourself chez moi—­”