"The power to hold their audience."
"You lack that? You who can hold a man—"
She broke in excitedly.
"Yes, I can hold one man—or woman. I can play to a few people and hold them. I know that. But—I can't hold a crowd."
Rooke regarded her thoughtfully. Perhaps it was true that in spite of her charm, of the compelling fascination which made her so unforgettable—did he not know how unforgettable!—she yet lacked the tremendous force of magnetic personality which penetrates through a whole concourse of people, temperamentally differing as the poles, and carries them away on one great tidal wave of enthusiasm and applause.
"It may be true," he said, at last, reluctantly. "I don't think you possess great animal magnetism! Yours is a more elusive, more—how shall I put it?—an attraction more spirituelle. . . . To those it touches, worse luck, a more enduring one."
"More enduring?"
"Far more. Animal magnetism is a thing of bodily presence. Once one is away from it—apart—one is free. Until the next meeting! But your victims aren't even free from you when you're not there."
"It sounds a trifle boring. Like a visitor who never knows when it's time to go."
Rooke smiled.