Physical exhaustion had dulled the glow of inner comfort that had come to him on the previous day. In his miserable depression all his old doubts assailed him once more. Was there any rule of justice after all? Was there anything in heaven above, or in the earth beneath, but cruel lust of power, and an absolute indifference to suffering? His old hatred against those who succeeded once more filled his heart, and though at one time he had felt curious to see Donati, and had heard all that Cecil had to say in favor of the Italian’s courage and unselfishness, yet now, in his bitterness of soul, he began to hate the man merely because of his popularity. “I detest these conceited, set-up idols of the public,” he thought to himself. “When all men speak well of a fellow it is time to suspect him. His goodness and all the rest of it is probably all calculation—a sort of advertisement!” The architects of most English music-halls have scant regard for the comfort of the _artistes_. It often used to strike Frithiof as a strange thing that in the Albert Hall, singers, whose health and strength were of priceless value, had to wait about in draughty, sloping passages, on uncomfortable chairs, while at St. James’s Hall they had only the option of marching up and down a cold, stone staircase to the cloak-room between every song, or of sitting in the dingy little den opening on to the platform steps—a den which resembles a family pew in a meetinghouse. Here, sitting face to face on hard benches, were ranged to-night many of the first singers of the day. There was Sardoni, the good-natured English tenor and composer. There was Mme. Sardoni-Borelli, with her noble and striking face and manner; besides a host of other celebrities, all the more dear to the audience because for years and years they had been giving their very best to the nation. But Carlo Donati had not yet arrived, and Mr. Horner kept glancing anxiously through the glass doors on to the staircase in hopes of catching sight of the great baritone. Frithiof lived through it all like a man in a dream, watched a young English tenor who was to make his first appearance that night, saw him walking to and fro in a tremendous state of nervousness, heard the poor fellow sing badly enough, and watched him plunge down the steps again amid the very faint applause of the audience. Next came the turn of Mme. Sardoni-Borelli. Her husband handed her the song she was to sing, she gave some directions to the accompanist as to the key in which she wanted it played, and mounted the platform with a composed dignity that contrasted curiously with the manner of the _débutant_ who had preceded her. Mr. Horner turned to Frithiof at that moment. “Go and see whether Signor Donati has come,” he said. “His song is next on the programme.”