accident." She reproached herself because she well knew that only out of
the most absurd contrariness had she repulsed Musa. Or was it that she had
repulsed him from fear of something that Tommy might say or look?

In a few seconds, strongly drawn by this marvellous piece of luck,
promenaders were darting with joyous rapidity from north, south, east and
west to witness the tragedy. There were nurses with coloured streamers six
feet long, lusty children, errand boys, lads, and sundry nondescript men,
some of whom carefully folded up their newspapers as they hurried to the
cynosure. They beheld the body as though it were a corpse, and the corpse
of an enemy; they formulated and discussed theories of the event; they
examined minutely the rackets which had been thrown on the ground. They
were exercising the immemorial rights of unmoved curiosity; they held
themselves as indifferent as gods, and the murmur of their impartial voices
floated soothingly over Musa, and the shadow of their active profiles
covered him from the sparkling sunshine. Somebody mentioned policemen, in
the plural, but none came. All remarked in turn that the ladies were
English, as though that were a sufficient explanation of the whole affair.

No one said:

"It is Musa, the greatest violinist in Paris and perhaps in Europe."

Desperately Audrey stooped and seized Musa beneath the armpits to lift him
to a sitting position.

"You'd better leave him alone," said Tommy, with a kind of ironic warning
and innuendo.

But Audrey still struggled with the mass, convinced that she was showing