his eyes met the gaze of the solitary
occupant of the second proscenium box.
His face flushed. He looked inquiringly,
almost appealingly, at her. She sat
immovable and serene, a lace-framed
vision in white.

It was she who, since he had met
her, only the night before, held his very
soul in thraldom.

He lifted his bow, tenderly placing it
on the strings. Faintly came the first
measures of the theme. The melody,
noble, limpid and beautiful, floated in
dreamy sway over the vast auditorium,
and seemed to cast a mystic glamour
over the player. As the final note of
the first movement was dying away, the
audience, awakening from its delicious
trance, broke forth into spontaneous
bravos.

Mildred Wallace, scrutinizing the
program, merely drew her wrap closer
about her shoulders and sat more erect.
At the end of the concerto the applause
was generous enough to satisfy the most
exacting virtuoso. Diotti unquestionably
had scored the greatest triumph of