'I am afraid mother will not allow me to again,' Challis said. 'She said yesterday was to be the last time.'
'The last time! Oh, why—why?' chorused the ladies.
'She said something about wanting me to rest now,' said poor Challis, flushing.
'Oh, but just two or three little pieces,' persisted the promoter of the concert, 'for the wives of the brave boys going to the war! Oh, I know you won't refuse us, will you? That pretty little thing you played for the funds of the Sailors' Home on Monday—what was that?'
'The Funeral March from Chopin's Second Sonata,' said Challis shyly. 'I will ask mother. I am sure, as it is for the soldiers, she will allow me,' and she edged out of the group.
A lady lying on a lounge beckoned to her.
'How are you, my dear, to-day?' she said.
'Quite well, thank you,' was Challis's answer.
'You are looking pale, I think. Your mother should give you quinine. Don't you ever take anything before you play to your big audiences?'
'No,' said Challis.