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.
§ iii
Claudine was nearly asleep when she heard that light tap at the door, but any voice calling “Mother!” could have aroused her from any sleep but death. She hastily put on her dressing-gown and opened the door. It was Andrée.
“I want to speak to you!” she said.
All sleep or fatigue fled from Claudine at once. There was something in that tone, something in the expression of her child’s face seen in the dim light of the hall, that froze her heart. She followed her to her own room, which was brilliantly illumined; it had somehow the appearance of a stage, a place pitilessly to expose a secret tragedy; and Andrée in her white dressing-gown and her soft black hair unbound looked a fit figure for any drama. Claudine asked herself, with a sinking heart, what was to be her part ...?
“Is anything wrong, darling?” she asked.
“There’s something I want to tell you.”