“Monsieur Foa-which floor?” Audrey asked once again of the aged concierge in the Rue d’Aumale.  This time she got an answer.  It was the fifth or top floor.  Musa said nothing, permitting himself to be taken about like a parcel, though with a more graceful passivity.  There was no lift, but at each floor a cushioned seat for travellers to use and a palm in a coloured pot in a niche for travellers to gaze upon as they rested.  The quality of the palms, however, deteriorated floor by floor, and on the fourth and fifth floors the niches were empty.  A broad embroidered bell-pull, twitched, gave rise to one clanging sound within the abode of the Foas, and the clanging sound reacted upon a small dog which yapped loudly and continued to yap until the visitors had entered and the door been closed again.  Monsieur came out of a room into the small entrance-hall, accompanied by a considerable noise of conversation.  He beamed his ravishment; he kissed hands; he helped with the dark blue cloak.

“I brought Monsieur Musa in my car,” said Audrey.  “The weather -”

Monsieur Foa bowed low to Monsieur Musa, and Monsieur Musa bowed low to Monsieur Foa.

“Monsieur!”

“Monsieur!”

“Monsieur, your accident I hope....”

And so on.

Cloak, overcoat, hat, stick-everything except the violin case-were thrown pell-mell on to a piece of furniture in the entrance-hall.  Monsieur Foa, instead of being in evening dress, was in exactly the same clothes as he had worn at his first meeting with Audrey.

Madame Foa appeared in the doorway.  She was a slim blonde Italian of pure descent, whereas only the paternal grandfather of Monsieur Foa had been Italian.  Madame Foa, who had called on Audrey at the Danube, exhibited the same symptoms of pleasure as her husband.

“But your friend?  But your friend?” cried she.

Audrey, being led gradually into the drawing-room, explained that Miss Ingate had been prevented at the last moment, etc., etc.

The distinction of Madame Foa’s simple dress had reassured Audrey to a certain extent, but the size of the drawing-room disconcerted her again.  She had understood that the house of the Foas was the real esoteric centre of musical Paris, and she had prepared herself for vast and luxurious salons, footmen, fountains of wine, rare flowers, dandies, and the divine shoulders of operatic sopranos who combined wit with the most seductive charm.  The drawing-room of the Foas was not as large as her own drawing-room at the Danube.  Still it was full, and double doors leading to an unseen dining-room at right angles to its length produced an illusion of space.  Some of the men and some of the women were elegant, and even very elegant; others were not.  Audrey instantly with her expert eye saw that the pictures on the walls were of the last correctness, and a few by illustrious painters.  Here and there she could see scrawled on them “a mon ami, Andre Foa.”  Such phenomena were balm.  Everybody in the room was presented to her, and with the greatest particularity, and the host and hostess gazed on her as on an idol, a jewel, an exquisite and startling discovery.  Musa found two men he knew.  The conversation was resumed with energy.

“And now,” said Madame Foa in English, sitting down intimately beside Audrey, with a loving gesture, “We will have a little talk, you and I. I find our friend Madame Piriac met you last year.”

“Ah!  Yes,” murmured Audrey, fatally struck, but admirably dissembling, for she was determined to achieve the evening successfully.  “Madame Piriac, will she come to-night?”

“I fear not,” replied Madame Foa.  “She would if she could.”

“I should so like to have seen her again,” said Audrey eagerly.  She was so relieved at Madame Piriac’s not coming that she felt she could afford to be eager.

And Monsieur Foa, a little distance off, threw a sign into the duologue, and called: 

“You permit me?  Your dress ... Exquise!  Exquise! And these pigs of French persist in saying that the English lack taste!” He clapped his hand to his forehead in despair of the French.

Then the clanging sound supervened, and the little fox-terrier yapped, and Monsieur Foa went out, ejaculating “Ah!” and Madame Foa went into the doorway.  Audrey glanced round for Musa, but he was out of sight in the dining-room.  Several people turned at once and spoke to her, including two composers who had probably composed more impossibilities for amateur pianists than any other two men who ever lived, and a musical critic with large dark eyes and an Eastern air, who had come from the Opera very sarcastic about the Opera.  One of the composers asked the critic whether he had not heard Musa play.

“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?”

Delicate osculatory explosions and pretty exclamations in the hall!  The hostess was encountering an old friend.  There was also a man’s deep English voice.  Then a hush.  The man’s voice produced a very strange effect upon Audrey.  Roussel began to play.  Musa held his bow aloft.  Creeping steps in the doorway made Audrey look round.  A lady smiled and bowed to her.  It was Madame Piriac, resplendent and serene.

Musa played the Caprice.  Audrey did not hear him, partly because the vision of Madame Piriac, and the man’s deep voice, had extremely perturbed her, and partly because she was so desperately anxious for Musa’s triumph.  She had decided that she could make his triumph here the prelude to tremendous things.  When he had finished she held her breath....

The applause, after an instant, was sudden and extremely cordial.  Monsieur Foa loudly clapped, smiling at Audrey.  Roussel patted Musa on the back and chattered to him fondly.  On each side of her Audrey could catch murmured exclamations of delight.  Musa himself was certainly pleased and happy....  He had played at Foa’s, where it was absolutely essential to play if one intended to conquer Paris and to prove one’s pretensions; and he had found favour with this satiated and fastidious audience.

“Ouf!" sighed the musical critic Orientally lounging on a chair.  “Andre, has it occurred to you that we are expiring for want of air?”

A window was opened, and a shiver went through the assembly.

The clanging sounded again, but no dog, for the dog had been exterminated.

“Dauphin, my old pig!” Foa’s greeting from the entrance floated into the drawing-room, and then a very impressed:  “Mademoiselle” from Madame Foa.

“What?” cried Dauphin.  “Musa has played?  He played well?  So much the better.  What did I tell you?”

And he entered the drawing-room with the satisfied air of having fed Musa from infancy and also of having taught him all he knew about the violin.

Madame Foa followed him, and with her was Miss Ingate, gorgeous and blushing.  The whole company was now on its feet and moving about.  Miss Ingate scuttered to Audrey.

“Well,” she whispered.  “Here I am.  I came partly to satisfy that hysterical Elise, and Monsieur Dauphin met me on the stairs.  But really I came because I’ve had another letter from Miss Nickall.  She’s been and got her arm broken in a street row.  I knew those policemen would do it one day.  I always said they would.”

But Audrey seemed not to be listening.  With a side-long gaze she saw Madame Piriac talking with a middle-aged Englishman, whose back alone was visible to her.  Madame Piriac laughed and vanished out of sight into the dining-room.  The Englishman turned and met Audrey’s glance.

Abruptly leaving Miss Ingate, Audrey walked straight up to the Englishman.

“Good evening,” she said in a low voice.  “What is your name?”

“Gilman,” he answered, with a laugh.  “I only this instant recognised you.”

“Well, Mr. Gilman,” said Audrey, “will you oblige me very much by not recognising me?  I want us to be introduced.  I am most particularly anxious that no one should know I’m the same girl who helped you to jump off your yacht at Lousey Hard last year.”

And she moved quickly away.