Musa knew not what she meant, and thus a slight chasm was opened between
them which neither could bridge. She finished: "In one week you are going
to be able to play again."

Musa shook his head.

Relieved as she was to discover that Musa had cried because he was done
for, and not because he was hurt, she was still worried by his want of
elasticity, of resiliency. Nevertheless she was agreeably worried. The
doctor had disappointed her by his light optimism, but he could not smile
away Musa's moral indisposition. The large vagueness of the studio, the
very faint twilight still showing through the great window, the silence and
intimacy, the sounds of the French language, the gleam of the white sling,
all combined to permeate her with delicious melancholy. And not for
everlasting bliss would she have had Musa strong, obstinate, and certain of
success.

"A week!" he murmured. "It is for ever. A week of practice lost is
eternally lost. And on Wednesday one had invited me to play at Foa's. And I
cannot."

"Foa? Who is Foa?"

"What! You do not know Foa? In order to succeed it is necessary, it is
essential, to play at Foa's. That alone gives the _cachet_. Dauphin told me
last week. He arranged it. After having played at Foa's all is possible.
Dauphin was about to abandon me when he met Foa. Now I am ruined. This
afternoon after the tennis I was going to Durand's to get the new Caprice
of Roussel--he is an intimate friend of Foa. I should have studied it in
five days. They would have been ravished by the attention .... But why talk