As she left, Stefan waved her a gay "Grand succes!" but he was already
prey to an agony of nervousness. Suppose she didn't make a success, or
--worse still--suppose she _did_ make a success--by singing bad
music! Suppose she lacked art in what she did! _She_ was perfection;
he was terrified lest her singing should not be. His fastidious brain
tortured him, for it told him he would love her less completely if
she failed.

Like most artists, Stefan adored music, and, more than most, understood
it. Suppose--just suppose--she were to sing Tosti's "Good-bye!" He
shuddered. Yet, if she did not sing something of that sort, it would fall
flat, and she would be disappointed. So he tortured himself all through
dinner, at which he did not see her, for he had been unable to get his
place changed to the first sitting with hers. He longed to keep away from
the concert, yet knew that he could not. At last, leaving his dessert
untouched, he sought refuge in his cabin.

The interval that must be dragged through while the stewards cleared the
saloon Stefan occupied in routing from Adolph's huge old Gladstone his
one evening suit. He had not at first dreamed of dressing, but many of
the other men had done so, and he determined that for her sake he must
play the game at least to that extent. Byrd added the scorn of the artist
to the constitutional dislike of the average American for conventional
evening dress. His, however, was as little conventional as possible, and
while he nervously adjusted it he could not help recognizing that it was
exceedingly becoming. He tore a tie and destroyed two collars, however,
before the result satisfied him, and his nerves were at leaping pitch
when staccato chords upon the piano announced that the concert had begun.
He found a seat in the farthest corner of the saloon, and waited,