"No, here they are," said Nick, handing the box.

To Audrey it seemed to be the identical box that Mr. Gilman had been carrying. But of course it might not be. Thousands of chocolate boxes resemble each other exactly.

Carefully ignoring Mr. Ziegler, Audrey remarked to Tommy with a light-heartedness which she did not feel:

"Well, what did you think of Jane this afternoon?"

"Jane?"

"Jane Foley. Nick was taking you to see her, wasn't she?"

"Oh, yes!" said Tommy with a bright smile. "But I didn't go. I went for a motor drive with Mr. Gilman."

There was a short pause. At length Tommy said:

"So he's got the goods on you at last!"

"Who?" Audrey sharply questioned.

"Dauphin. I knew he would. Remember my words. That portrait will cost you forty thousand francs, not counting the frame."

This was the end of the concert.

CHAPTER XLV

STRANGE RESULT OF A QUARREL

The next afternoon Audrey sat nervous and expectant, but highly finished, in her drawing-room at the Hotel du Danube. Miss Ingate had gone out, pretending to be quite unaware that she had been sent out. The more detailed part of Audrey's toilette had been accomplished subsequent to Miss Ingate's departure, for Audrey had been at pains to inform Miss Ingate that she, Audrey, was even less interested than usual in her appearance that afternoon. They were close and mutually reliable friends; but every friendship has its reservations. Elise also was out; indeed, Miss Ingate had taken her.

Audrey had the weight of all the world on her, and so long as she was alone she permitted herself to look as though she had. She had to be wise, not only for Audrey Moze, but for others. She had to be wise for Musa, whose failure, though the newspapers all spoke (at about twenty francs a line) of his overwhelming success, was admittedly lamentable; and she hated Musa; she confessed that she had been terribly mistaken in Musa, both as an artist and as a man; still, he was on her mind. She had to be wise about her share in the new campaign of Rosamund, which, while not on her mind, was on her conscience. She had to be wise about the presumable loss of her fortune; she had telegraphed to Mr. Foulger early that morning for information, and an answer was now due. Finally she had to be wise for Mr.

Gilman, whose happiness depended on a tone of her voice, on a single monosyllable breathed through those rich lips. She looked forward with interest to being wise for Mr. Gilman. She felt capable of that. The other necessary wisdoms troubled her brow. She seemed to be more full of responsibility and sagacity than any human being could have been expected to be. She was, however, very calm. Her calmness was prodigious.

Then the bell rang, and she could hear one of the hotel attendants open the outer door with his key. Instantly her calmness, of which she had been so proud, was dashed to pieces and she had scarcely begun in a hurry to pick the pieces up and put them together again when the attendant entered the drawing-room. She was afraid, but she thought she was happy.

Only it was not Mr. Gilman the attendant announced. The man said:

"Mademoiselle Nickall."

Audrey said to herself that she must get Nick very quickly away. She was in no humour to talk even to Nick, and, moreover, she did not want Nick to know that Mr. Gilman was calling upon her.

Miss Nickall was innocent and sweet. Good nature radiated from her soft, tired features, and was somehow also entangled in her fluffy grey hair. She kissed Audrey with affection.

"I've just come to say good-bye, you dear!" she said, sitting down and putting her check parasol across her knees. "How lovely you look!"

"Good-bye?" Audrey questioned. "Do I?"

"I have to cross for England to-night. I've had my orders. Rosamund came this morning. What about yours?"

"Oh!" said Audrey. "I don't take orders. But I expect I shall join in, one of these days, when I've had everything explained to me properly. You see, you and I haven't got the same tastes, Nick. You aren't happy without a martyrdom. I am."

Nick smiled gravely and uncertainly.

"It's very serious this time," said she. "Hasn't Rosamund spoken to you yet?"

"She's spoken to me. And I've spoken to her. It was deuce, I should say. Or perhaps my 'vantage. Anyhow, I'm not moving just yet."

"Well, then," said Nick, "if you're staying in Paris, I hope you'll keep an eye on Musa. He needs it. Tommy's going away. At least I fancy she is. We both went to see him this morning."

"Both of you!"

"Well, you see, we've always looked after him. He was in a terrible state about last night. That's really one reason why I called. Not that I'd have gone without kissing you----"

She stopped. There was another ring at the bell. The attendant came in with great rapidity.

"I'm lost!" thought Audrey, disgusted and perturbed. "Her being here will spoil everything."

But the attendant handed her a card, and the card bore the name of Musa.

Audrey flushed. Almost instinctively, without thinking, she pa.s.sed the card to Nick.

"My land!" exclaimed Nick. "If he sees me here he'll think I've come on purpose to talk about him and pity him, and he'll be just perfectly furious. Can I get out any other way?" She glanced interrogatively at the half-open door of the bedroom.

"But I don't want to see him, either!" Audrey protested.

"Oh! You must! He'll listen to sense from you, perhaps. Can I go this way?"

Impelled to act in spite of herself, Audrey took Nick into the bedroom, and as soon as Musa had been introduced into the drawing-room she embraced Nick in silence and escorted her on tiptoe through Miss Ingate's bedroom to the vestibule and waved an adieu. Then she retraced her steps and made a grand entry into the drawing-room from her own bedroom. She meant to dispose of Musa immediately. A meeting between him and Mr. Gilman on her hearthrug might involve the most horrible complications.

The young man and the young woman shook hands. But it was the handshaking of bruisers when they enter the ring, and before the blood starts to flow.

"Won't you please sit down?" said Audrey. He was obliged now to obey her, as she had been obliged to obey him on the previous afternoon in the Rue Ca.s.sette.

If Audrey looked as though the whole world was on her shoulders, Musa's face seemed to contradict hers and to say that the world, far from being on anybody's shoulders, had come to an end. All the expression of the violinist showed that in his honest conviction a great mundane calamity had occurred, the calamity of course being that his violin bow had not caused catgut to vibrate in such a way as to affect the ears of a particular set of people in a particular manner. But in addition to this sense of a calamity he was under the influence of another emotion--angry resentment.

However, he sat down, holding firmly his hat, gloves, and stick.

"I saw my agent this morning," said he, in a grating voice, in French. He was pale.

"Yes?" said Audrey. She suddenly guessed what was coming, and she felt a certain alarm, which nevertheless was not entirely disagreeable.

"Why did you pay for that concert, and the future concerts, without telling me, Madame?"

"Paid for the concerts?" she repeated, rather weakly.

"Yes, Madame. To do so was to make me ridiculous--not to the world, but to myself. For I believed all the time that I had succeeded in gaining the genuine interest of an agent who was prepared to risk money upon the proper exploitation of my talent. I worked in that belief. In spite of your att.i.tude to me I did work. Your antipathy was bad for me; but I conquered myself, and I worked. I had confidence in myself. If last night I did not have a triumph, it was not because I did not work, but because I had been upset--and again by you, Madame. Even after the misfortune of last night I still had confidence, for I knew that the reasons of my failure were accidental and temporary. But I now know that I was living in a fool's paradise, which you had kindly created for me. You have money. Apparently you have too much money. And with money you possess the arrogance of wealth. You knew that I had accepted a.s.sistance from good friends. And you thought in your arrogance that you might launch me without informing me of your intention. You thought it would amuse you to make a little fairy-tale in real life. It was a negligent gesture on the part of a rich and idle woman. It cost you nothing save a few bank-notes, of which you had so many that it bored you to count them. How amusing to make a reputation! How charitable to help a starving player! But you forgot one thing. You forgot my dignity and my honour. It was nothing to you that you exposed these to the danger of the most grave affront. It was nothing to you that I was received just as though I had been a child, and that for months I was made, without knowing it, to fulfil the role of a conceited jackanapes. When one is led to have confidence in oneself one is tempted to adopt a certain tone and to use certain phrases, which may or may not be justified. I yielded to the temptation. I was wrong, but I was also victimised. This morning, with a moment's torture under the impertinent tongue of a rascally impresario, I paid for all the spurious confidence which I have felt and for all the proud words I have uttered. I came to-day in order to lay at your feet my thanks for the unique humiliation which I owe to you."