"It's revenge," I groaned, under my breath, and felt Mrs. Jack's cold hand creep into mine.
Down came the paws of Nemesis, and lo, the injustice that I had done to Tom was revealed to me. His touch was masterly. I could not have been more amazed had I seen an elephant threading a needle. The whole episode was strangely blended of the uncanny and realistic. I found myself noting the angle at which Tom held his chin. He always raised it thus when his man shaved him, his head thrown back and his eyes half-closed.
Then gradually it dawned on me that I was taking keen delight in his rendition of that marvelous ballade in A flat major that Chopin dedicated to Mlle. de Noailles. There is nothing more thoroughly Chopinesque in all the master's works than this perfect exposition of the refined in art. Tom's rendering of the lovely theme in F major, one of the most delicate in the world of music, thrilled me with startled admiration. But a chill came over me. What would he do with the section in C sharp minor, with its inverted dominant pedal in the right hand while the left is carrying on the theme? Without both skill and passion on the part of the performer the interpretation of this passage is certain to be commonplace. But hardly had this doubt assailed me when I knew that Tom had triumphed over every obstacle of technique and temperament, that he was approaching the harmonic grandeur of the finale with the poise and power of genius in full control of itself and its medium.
I have never fainted. Swooning went out of fashion long before my time, and I am devoted to the modern cult of self-control, but if it hadn't been for Mrs. Jack, who is really fond of me at times, I think that the last bar of Tom's Opus 47 would have seen my finish. The room had begun to whirl in a circle, like a merry-go-round in evening dress, when she steadied me by whispering:
"It's all right, my dear. Tom wins by four lengths, well in hand."
I came to myself in the very center of a storm of applause. Our guests had forgotten the conventionalities pertaining to a will-ordered musical. The men were on their feet, cheering. The women waved fans and handkerchiefs, and pelted Tom with violets and roses. The poor fellow sat at the piano in a half-dazed condition. A bunch of flowers, deftly thrown, struck him on the forehead, and he put his gifted hand to his brow as if he had just been recalled to consciousness.
"Encore! Encore!" cried our guests. Turino was gesticulating frantically, while Mlle. Vanoni and Signorina Molatti smiled and clapped their hands in exaggerated ecstasy.
I was worried by the expression that had come into Tom's face, and made my way quickly toward the piano.
"Aren't you well, my dear?" I asked, bending toward him, while the uproar behind me decreased a bit.
"What have I been doing, Winifred?" he asked, sheepishly, like one who wakens from a dream. "Get one of your damned dagos to sing, will you? I've got to have a drink or die!"