The majesty of the music grew as the evening passed. When at last the orchestra struck out into that masterpiece, Tschaikowsky’s Concerto in B minor, she forgot all else to lose herself in the marvelous rise and fall of cadent sound that resembled nothing so much as a storm on a rockbound coast.
The piano, leading on, called now to the violin to join in, then upon the cello, the bass viols, the cornets, the saxophones, the trombones, the trap-drums, until all together, in perfect unison, they sent forth such a volume of sound as shook the very walls.
The great virtuoso, forgetful of all else, gave herself completely to her music. Turning first this way, then that, she beckoned the lagging orchestra on until a climax had been reached.
Then, after a second of such silence as is seldom experienced save after a mighty clap of thunder, as if from somewhere away in a distant forest there came the tinkle, tinkle of the single instrument as her velvet tipped fingers glided across the keys.
A single violin joined in, then another and another, then all of them, until again the great chorus swelled to the very dome of the vast auditorium.
This was the music that, like the songs of mermaids of old, charm men into forgetfulness; that lifts them and carries them away from all dull care, all sordid affairs of money and all temptation to the mean, the low and the base.
It so charmed Lucile that for a full moment after the last note had been struck and the last echo of applause had died away, she sat there listening to the reverberations of the matchless music that still sounded in her soul.
When she awoke from her revery it was with a mighty start.
“Where is she?” she exclaimed, leaping from her seat.
“Who?” said Laurie.