It was quite dark when the Colonel and Anita cantered through the lower entrance, the short way to the C. O.’s house.  One door alone was open in the long row of red brick barracks.  The electric light in the passageway fell full upon the figures of Broussard and Mrs. Lawrence as the woman impulsively put her hand on Broussard’s shoulder; he gently removed it and walked quickly out of the door.  Under the glare of a street lamp he came face to face with Colonel Fortescue.

An officer visiting the wife of a private soldier is not a thing to be excused by a strict Colonel, and Colonel Fortescue was very strict, and had Argus eyes in the bargain.

Broussard saluted the Colonel and bowed to Anita and passed on.  The Colonel returned the salute but Anita was too startled to acknowledge the bow.  When they reached the Commandant’s house and Colonel Fortescue swung Anita from her saddle she walked into the house slowly, her eyes fixed on the ground.  At the door the After-Clap met her with a shout, but instead of a romp with his grown-up playmate, he received only an absent-minded kiss.  Almost at the same moment Neroda walked into the hall.

“Here I am, Signorina,” he said, “ready for the practice.  Mr. Broussard sings too well for you to do less than play divinely.”

Anita, taking off her gloves and veil, went, unsmilingly, into the drawing-room, Neroda following her, and putting up the top of the grand piano.

It was Neroda’s rule that Anita should tune her own violin.  Usually she did it with beautiful accuracy, but on this evening it was utterly inharmonious.  As she drew her bow across the strings Neroda jumped as if he were shot.

“Great God!  Signorina,” he shouted, “every string is swearing at the G-string!  The spirit of music will not come to you to-night unless you tune your violin better.”

Anita stopped and laid down her bow, and once more holding the violin to her ear, began tuning it.  That time the tuning was so bad that she handed the violin to Neroda.

“You must tune it for me, Maestro,” she said, with a wan smile.  “The spirit of music seems far away to-night.”

Neroda, in a minute, handed her back the instrument in perfect tune.  Anita, testing the strings, her bow wandered into the soft heart-moving music of Mascagni’s Intermezzo.  Neroda said nothing, but watched his favorite pupil.  Usually she took up her violin with a calm confidence, like a young Amazon taking up her well-strung bow for battle, because the violin must be subdued; it must be made to obey; it must feel the master hand before it will speak.  But to-night the master hand failed Anita, and she played fitfully and sadly and could do nothing as Neroda directed her.

“Shall we give up the rehearsal?” asked Neroda presently, seeing that Anita was not concentrated and that her bow arm showed strange weakness.

“No,” replied Anita, with a new courage in her violet eyes, “Let us rehearse for the whole hour.”