Musa by contrast was an accomplished man of the world, and the fact that the fourth obviously regarded him as a hero helped Musa to behave in a manner satisfactory to himself in front of these English and American women, so strange, so exotic, so kind, and so disconcerting.  Musa looked upon Britain as a romantic isle where people died for love.  And as for America, in his mind it was as sinister, as wondrous, and as fatal as the Indies might seem to a bank clerk in Bradford.  He had need of every moral assistance in this or any other social ordeal.  For, though he was still the greatest violinist in Paris, and perhaps in the world, he could not yet prove this profound truth by the only demonstration which the world accepts.

If he played in studios he was idolised.  If he played at small concerts in unknown halls he was received with rapture.  But he was never lionised.  The great concert halls never saw him on their platforms; his name was never in the newspapers; and hospitable personages never fought together for his presence at their tables, even if occasionally they invited him to perform for charity in return for a glass of claret and a sandwich.  Monsieur Dauphin had attempted to force the invisible barriers for him, but without success.  All his admirers in the Quarter stuck to it that he was in the rank of Kreisler and Ysaye; at the same time they were annoyed with him inasmuch as he did not force the world to acknowledge the prophetic good taste of the Quarter.  And Musa made mistakes.  He ought to have arrived at studios in a magnificent automobile, and to have given superb and uproarious repasts, and to have rendered innumerable women exquisitely unhappy.  Whereas he arrived by tube or bus, never offered hospitality of any sort, and was like a cat with women.  Hence the attitude of the Quarter was patronising, as if the Quarter had said:  “Yes, he is the greatest violinist in Paris and perhaps in the world; but that’s all, and it isn’t enough.”

The young man and the boy made ready for the game as for a gladiatorial display.  Their frowning seriousness proved that they had comprehended the true British idea of sport.  Musa came round the net to Audrey’s side, but Audrey said in French: 

“Miss Thompkins and I will play together.  See, we are going to beat you and Gustave.”

Musa retired.  A few indifferent spectators had collected.  Gustave, the fourth, had to serve.

“Play!” he muttered, in a thick and threatening voice, whose depth was the measure of his nervousness.

He served a double fault to Tommy, and then a fault to Audrey.  The fourth ball he got over.  Audrey played it.  The two males rushed with appalling force together on the centre line in pursuit, and a terrible collision occurred.  Musa fell away from Gustave as from a wall.  When he arose out of the pebbly dust his right arm hung very limp from the shoulder.  No sooner had he risen than he sank again, and the blood began to leave his face, and