“Yes,” said the critic.  “I heard him in the Ternes Quarter—­somewhere.  He plays very agreeably.  Madame,” he addressed Audrey.  “I was discussing with these gentlemen whether it be not possible to define the principle of beauty in music.  Once it is defined, my trade will be much simplified, you see.  What say you?”

How could she discourse on the principle of beauty in music when she had the whole weight of the evening on her shoulders?  Musa was the whole weight of the evening.  Would he succeed?  She was his mother, his manager, his creator.  He was her handiwork.  If he failed she would have failed.  That was her sole interest in him, but it was an overwhelming interest.  When would he be asked to play?  Useless for them to flatter her about her dress, to treat her like a rarity, if they offered callous, careless, off-hand remarks, such as “He plays very agreeably.”

She stammered: 

“I—­I only know what I like.”

One of the composers jumped up excitedly: 

“Voila Madame has said the final word.  You hear me, the final word, the most profound.  Argue as you will, perfect the art of criticism to no matter what point, and you will never get beyond the final word of Madame.”

The critic shrugged his shoulders, and with a smile bowed to the ravishing utterer of last words on the most baffling of subjects.  This fluttered person soon perceived that she had been mistaken in supposing that the room was full.  The clanging sound kept recurring, the dog kept barking, and new guests continually poured into the room, thereby proving that it was not full.  All comers were introduced to Audrey, whose head was a dizzy riot of strange names.  Then at last a girl sang, and was applauded.  Madame Foa played for her.  “Now,” thought Audrey, “they will ask Musa.”  Then one of the composers played the piano, his themes punctuated by the clanging sound and by the dog.  The room was asphyxiating, but no one except Audrey seemed to be inconvenienced.  Then several guests rang in quick succession.

“Madame!” the suave and ardent voice of Foa could be heard in the entrance-hall.  “And thou, Roussel ...  Ippolita, Ippolita!” he called to his wife.  “It is Roussel.”

Audrey did not turn her head.  She could not.  But presently Roussel, in a blue suit with a wonderful flowing bow of a black necktie in crepe de Chine, was led before her.  And Musa was led before Roussel.  Audrey, from nervousness, was moved to relate the history of Musa’s accident to Roussel.

The moment had arrived.  Roussel sat down to the piano.  Musa tuned his fiddle.

“From what appears,” murmured Monsieur Foa to nobody in particular, with an ecstatic expectant smile on his face, “this Musa is all that is most amazing.”

Then, in the silence, the clanging sound was renewed, and the fox-terrier reacted.

“Andre, my friend,” cried Madame Foa, skipping into the hall.  “Will you do me the pleasure of exterminating this dog?”