"I don't allow encores," said the German, "but you're in luck, my friend, in luck."
The colour was darkening on Nigel's face. It was his hour of triumph. He wished Tony was there, and Janey and Leonard—he would let them come to his next concert.
He went on and bowed again—he had to appear several times before the demand for an encore was given up as hopeless, and the applause gradually died away.
He went to the back of the stage and sat down, holding his head in his hands. He wanted to be alone, and to read his telegrams. The future was now a flaming promise—his feet at last were set on the honourable way. He let his mind lose itself in its dream, and for a moment he was conscious of nothing but infinite hope. From the stage a plaintive, bizarre air of Moussorgski's came to him. To be Russian was to von Gleichroeder synonymous with to be modern, and Moussorgski and Rimsky Korsakov were encouraged where their French or Italian contemporaries were banned. Every now and then a little slow ripple brought an end to strange wailing dissonances; it was played without much fire—without much feeling—but it haunted.
Nigel opened his first telegram. It read—
"Go it, old chap—laurels is cheap."
That was from Leonard, and a half tender, half humorous smile crept over Furlonger's grim mouth. Dear old Len!—dear old Janey! How he wished they were there! He would wire to them the first thing to-morrow and tell them of his success.
Then suddenly the smile passed away, and his hands shook a little. Who had sent the second telegram?
He tore nervously at the envelope. Had Tony remembered him? one word of encouragement from her was worth all the clappings and stampings of the audience, all the eulogies of the press....
"And I also dreamed, which pleased me most,