Van could not remember ever having seen such great, dark liquid eyes as now melted into his. It seemed hard not to behold them again for a whole week. Hard? It was impossible. It was dreadful to leave her for the little time while the mandolin club was on the stage. On his way up the aisle his freshman brain was seized and overmastered by a brilliant idea; he almost stopped to pat himself on the shoulder.
Going into one of the dressing rooms, he sank dejectedly on a chair and pressed his hand to his forehead. Perkins, gathering in his musicians for the next piece, found him there.
"Come along, Freshie."
The first mandolin rose slowly.
"What's the matter?" asked the leader.
"Oh, nothing," said the other, "I'll be all right."
After the piece he went back to the dressing-room.
"Encore!" cried Perkins, rushing in.
"I can't help it," said Van, in a contracted tone, "I can't go on."
"Why not?" demanded Perkins.