“Don't say that, Olga,” she whispered softly. “You will delight great audiences again,—you will charm—”
“Possibly,” interrupted the other, lowering her voice, turning her eyes upon Ruth, and smiling mysteriously. “Great audiences, yes,—but what are they? I appeared tonight before an audience of one. I danced as I have never danced before,—all for zat audience of one. Your husband, my dear. He one time informs me he has never seen me dance. Well,—tonight I dance for him. Now, he can say he have seen Obosky dance. He will never forget zat he have seen Obosky dance.”
Ruth laughed, but it was a strained effort. “He was positively enchanted, Olga,” she said. Then she added: “But for goodness' sake, don't ever let him know that you did it all for him. He will be so proud and important that—”
“Oh, he knows I danced for him,” broke in the Russian calmly, in a most matter-of-fact tone.
“You—you told him?”
“I did not have to tell him. He knew, without being told. La la, my dear! Do not look so shocked. It is a habit I have. Always I dance for one person in my audience. I pick him out,—sometimes it is a she,—and zen I try only to please zat one person. I make him to feel he is the one I am dancing for, zat he is all alone in the great big hall,—all alone with me. Maybe he is in the gallery, looking down; maybe he is in a box, or standing up at the back of the house,—no matter where he is, I pick him out and so I think of no one else all ze time I dance.”
“And, by the same token, he is powerless to think of any one else. I see. No wonder you charm them out of their boots.”
“And all the rest of his life he will remember that I danced for him alone, zat man. As for me,—poof! I would not recognize him again if he came to see me a thousand nights in succession. Once I saw a very tiny boy in the stalls. He was with his mother and father. I danced for zat child of six. When he is a very, very old man he will look back over the years and see me dancing still,—always the same whirling, dazzling thing that filled his little eyes and soul with wonder. So! Percivail has seen me at my best. He will tell his grandchildren how wonderful Obosky was,—and he will think of her to his dying day as something beautiful, not something vile.”
“Oh, Olga!”
“You see, my dear,” said the other, composedly, “I wanted to make a good impression on zat virtuous husband of jours. Now he will think of me as the artist, not as the woman. It is much better so, is it not?”