"I am tired—but not mind-tired, heart-tired, spirit-tired as I once was. My elbows ache and there's a raw place on my shoulder, but it's an honorable scar and I'll wear it. And I sleep, O Philidor, I never knew the luxury of sleep such as mine."
"I don't want you to be ill."
"I can do my share," she finished steadily, "if Stella can."
Toward three o'clock of the afternoon Yvonne mounted her piano box. The Fabiani family had been so well received that once it had been necessary for Philidor to draw the flap at the gate because there was no room in the enclosure for more people. As the time for the beginning of the fourth performance drew near, a crowd had again gathered, listening to the Femme Orchestre and moving in groups of two and three toward the entrance where Philidor in the intervals between announcements pocketed their coins and watched Yvonne. This last occupation was one in which of late he had taken great delight. Her costume, as Monsieur de Folligny had also discovered, became her admirably, the sun and wind had tanned her face and arms to a rich warmth, and this color made the blue of her eyes the more tender. The lines he had discovered in her face were absent now, for it was the business of a Femme Orchestre to smile.
Cleofonte had come out and was looking over the crowd with an appraising eye, adding his own voice to the din as Philidor paused for breath, when in the midst of a lively air the music stopped—stopped so suddenly that Philidor turned to see what the matter was. Yvonne gave one startled glance over the crowd, then jumped down behind the box and, unslinging her orchestra as she dropped, literally dove under the canvas flap and disappeared. Philidor, who was in the act of making change, called Cleofonte to take his place and went inside, to find that Yvonne had fled behind the wagon.
"What is it?" he asked, alarmed. "Are you ill?"
"No, no," breathlessly. "Olga! I saw her. She's out there."
It was Philidor's turn to be perturbed. "Olga Tcherny! You must be mistaken."
"I'm not. I wish I was. I saw her plainly—and the Renauds, Madeleine de Cahors and Chandler Cushing. O Philidor, they mustn't see me here!" She seized his arm and looked up into his eyes appealingly.
His brows drew downward and he glanced toward the entrance.