The music suddenly ceased.  The Chaconne was finished.  The gallery of enthusiasts still applauded with vociferation, with mystic faith, with sublime obstinacy.  It was carrying on a sort of religious war against the base apathy of the rest of the audience.  It was determined to force its belief down the throats of the unintelligent mob.  It had made up its mind that until it had had its way the world should stand still.  No encore had yet been obtained, and the gallery was set on an encore.  The clapping fainted, expired, and then broke into new life, only to expire again and recommence.  A few irritated persons hissed.  The gallery responded with vigour.  Musa, having retired, reappeared, very white, and bowed.  The applause was feverish and unconvincing.  Musa vanished.  But the gallery had thick soles and hard hands and stout sticks, even serviceable umbrellas.  It could not be appeased by bows alone.  And after about three minutes of tedious manoeuvring, Musa had at last to yield an encore that in fact nobody wanted.  He played a foolish pyrotechnical affair of De Beriot, which resembled nothing so much as a joke at a funeral.  After that the fate of the concert could not be disputed even by the gallery.  At the finish of the evening there was, in the terrible idiom of the theatre, “not a hand.”

Whether Musa had played well or ill, Audrey had not the least idea.  Nor did that point seem to matter.  Naught but the attitude of the public seemed to matter.  This was strange, because for a year Audrey had been learning steadily in the Quarter that the attitude of the public had no importance whatever.  She suffered from the delusion that the public was staring at her and saying to her:  “You, you silly little thing, are responsible for this fiasco.  We condescended to come—­and this is what you have offered us.  Go home, and let your hair down and shorten your skirts, for you are no better than a schoolgirl, after all.”  She was really self-conscious.  She despised Musa, or rather she threw to him a little condescending pity.  And yet at the same time she was furious against that group in the foyer for being so easily dissuaded from going to see Musa in the artists’ room....  Rats deserting a sinking ship!...  People, even the nicest, would drop a failure like a match that was burning out....  Yes, and they would drop her....  No, they would not, because of Mr. Gilman.  Mr. Gilman was calling-to see her to-morrow.  He was the rock and the cushion.  She would send Miss Ingate out for the afternoon.  As the audience hurried eagerly forth she spoke sharply to Miss Ingate.  She was indeed very rude to Miss Ingate.  She was exasperated, and Miss Ingate happened to be handy.

In the foyer not a trace of the Foa clan nor of Madame Piriac and her husband, nor of Mr. Gilman!  But Tommy and Nick were there, putting on their cloaks, and with them, but not helping them, was Mr. Ziegler.  The blond Mr. Ziegler greeted Audrey as though the occasion of their previous meeting had been a triumph for him.  His self-satisfaction, if ever it had been damaged, was repaired to perfection.  The girls were silent; Miss Ingate was silent; but Mr. Ziegler was not silent.