§ ii
Mr. MacGregor expected a triumph that evening. He had hired a large hall, and had been promised the presence of several well-known musicians and critics, to say nothing of the important “society element.” He had been for years steadily growing in favour, until he now held a unique position as a master who was not only able to give to débutantes a very attractive accomplishment, but a man who trained and developed genuine artists. There was a certain youth from the Ghetto at present creating something of a furore as a concert player whom he had “made,” and several lesser stars. And he had now up his sleeve two or three surprises, to be released this evening. He had a boy—a young Pole whom he had been teaching gratis and more or less supporting, he had a young woman of buxom charm and amazing technic, and he had Andrée, whose chief claim was not so much in technic—though hers was of a high order—but the originality of her interpretations. He knew that some of the critics would be indignant at a lack of classic reverence, but others would be charmed, and all of them would talk.
He himself didn’t appear; he stood in the wings, watching and listening, his attention divided between his pupils and the audience. And there wasn’t one chagrin; everything went beautifully. His young Russian aroused a sharp interest in the critics, the buxom young woman was at her best, and Andrée ...! He was entranced with Andrée. She looked like the very spirit of music, filled with an innocent wild ardour, young, lovely, proud. His hopes, his personal hopes, that is, of ever becoming her husband had very nearly faded away, and he was able to regard her with a more impersonal eye. He had never summoned the courage to propose to her; he knew it would only make him ridiculous, and he was beginning to feel rather glad that he hadn’t committed himself.
“She’ll go a long way beyond me!” he reflected, candidly. “She has a wonderful future before her—if she doesn’t make a fool of herself!”
Her family sat listening to her with ecstatic pride, even Gilbert, who was constitutionally opposed to public life for women. They listened to the enthusiastic clapping, they watched her come back onto the stage again and take an encore, not at all the timid novice, but cool, careless, aloof as Diana herself. They heard whispered comments upon her all about—“a beautiful girl,” “so distinguished,” “a magnetic personality,” and even a few remarks about her music, and when she joined them, when it was all over, they were at a loss what to say to her. Edna wept a little.
They got into the motor; even the chauffeur, who had been given a seat in the balcony, was beaming. They drove home, and went into the dining-room for a little supper, with champagne, to celebrate her triumph.