auditorium. As I left the lights were being extinguished over the
platform, and an attendant was closing the piano. The foyer was crowded
with people waiting to get out. The word passed that it was raining
heavily. I wondered how I should find my cab. I felt very lonely and
unknown; I was overcome with sadness--with a sense of the futility and
frustration of my life. Such is the logic of the soul, and such the force
of reaction. Gradually the foyer emptied.




III


'You think I am happy,' said Diaz, gazing at me with a smile
suddenly grave; 'but I am not. I seek something which I cannot find.
And my playing is only a relief from the fruitless search; only
that. I am forlorn.'

'You!' I exclaimed, and my eyes rested on his, long.

Yes, we had met. Perhaps it had been inevitable since the beginning of
time that we should meet; but it was none the less amazing. Perhaps I had
inwardly known that we should meet; but, none the less, I was astounded
when a coated and muffled figure came up swiftly to me in the emptying
foyer, and said: 'Ah! you are here! I cannot leave without thanking you
for your sympathy. I have never before felt such sympathy while playing.'
It was a golden voice, pitched low, and the words were uttered with a
very slight foreign accent, which gave them piquancy. I could not reply;
something rose in my throat, and the caressing voice continued: 'You are