he repeated. "You could do big things, Nan. And you do nothing."

Nan laughed, half-pleased, half-vexed.

"I think you overrate my capabilities."

"I don't. There are very few pianists who have your technique, and fewer
still, your soul and power of interpretation."

"Oh, yes, there are. Heaps. And they've got what I lack."

"And that is?"

"The power to hold their audience."

"You lack that? You who can hold a man--"

She broke in excitedly.

"Yes, I can hold one man--or woman. I can play to a few people and hold
them. I know that. But--I can't hold a crowd."

Rooke regarded her thoughtfully. Perhaps it was true that in spite of
her charm, of the compelling fascination which made her so
unforgettable--did he not know how unforgettable!--she yet lacked the
tremendous force of magnetic personality which penetrates through a whole
concourse of people, temperamentally differing as the poles, and carries
them away on one great tidal wave of enthusiasm and applause.

"It may be true," he said, at last, reluctantly. "I don't think you