"I—I think I will run back to the others," she cried suddenly.
Baskinelli was left alone.
"I congratulate you, Signor, on the success of the evening," said a voice at his shoulder. "There are few among the famous who can conquer drawing rooms as well as auditoriums."
The musician turned to face the ingratiating smile of Raymond Owen.
"I thank you—I thank you, sir. But I do not believe you. My 'conquest' has turned to catastrophe. I have lost everything."
"You mean that you are dissatisfied with the applause?" asked Owen.
"No! No! Applause is nothing from the many. There is always one in his audience to whom he plays from his soul."
"And that one—tonight?"
"The lovely Miss—what, now, is her name—Marvin. She bewitches me —and she scorns me."
"Signor Baskinelli, there are other places than drawing rooms, or even conservatories, in which to capture those who captivate."
"I—do I quite grasp your meaning, Mistaire Owen?" He tried to disguise the suspicion under an accentuated accent.