tense waiting and attention.

As Jasmine composed herself she said in a low voice to Ian Stafford,
whose well-proportioned character, personality, and refinement of
culture were in such marked contrast to the personality of the other:
"They live hard lives in those new lands. He has wasted much of
himself."

"Three millions at thirty-three means spending a deal of one thing to
get another," Ian answered a little grimly.

"Hush! Oh, Ian, listen!" she added in a whisper.

Once more Al'mah rose to mastery over the audience. The bold and
generous orchestration, the exceptional chorus, the fine and brilliant
tenor, had made a broad path for her last and supreme effort. The
audience had long since given up their critical sense, they were ready
to be carried into captivity again, and the surrender was instant and
complete. Now, not an eye was turned away from the singer. Even the
Corinthian gallant at the end of the first row of stalls gave himself
up to feasting on her and her success, and the characters in the opera
were as electrified as the audience.

For a whole seven minutes this voice seemed to be the only thing in
the world, transposing all thoughts, emotions, all elements of life
into terms of melody. Then, at last, with a crash of sweetness, the
voice broke over them all in crystals of sound and floated away into a
world of bright dreams.

An instant's silence which followed was broken by a tempest of