"
"Well, I was only whispering. But if you tell me I mustn't--"
The hall was crammed from end to end, for not only was Hermann a person
of innumerable friends, but he had already a considerable reputation,
and, being a German, all musical England went to hear him. And to-night
he was playing superbly, after a couple of days of miserable nervousness
over his debut as a pianist; but his temperament was one of those
that are strung up to their highest pitch by such nervous agonies; he
required just that to make him do full justice to his own personality,
and long before he came to the "Variations," Michael felt quite at ease
about his success. There was no question about it any more: the
whole audience knew that they were listening to a master. In the row
immediately behind Michael's party were sitting Sylvia and her mother,
who had not quite been torn away from her novels, since she had sought
"The Love of Hermione Hogarth" underneath her cloak, and read it
furtively in pauses. They had come in after Michael, and until the
interval between the classical and the modern section of the concert he
was unaware of their presence; then idly turning round to look at the
crowded hall, he found himself face to face with the girl.
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