There were tears to be wiped from his own face when he ended, and he wiped them brazenly, unresentful of the frenzied approval of the audience, which now let itself go, out of stored-up gratitude, and because this must be the last performance. All his vanity, his artistic posing, was swallowed up in utter sincerity. He did not shut the piano; he sat brooding a moment or two in tender reverie. Suddenly he perceived his red-haired muse at his side. Ah, she had discovered him at last, knew him simultaneously for the genius and the patriot, was come to pour out her soul at his feet. But why was she mute? Why was she tendering this scented letter? Was it because she could not trust herself to speak before the crowd? He tore open the delicate envelope. _Himmel!_ what was this? Would the maestro honour Mrs. Wilhammer by taking tea in her cabin? He stared dazedly at the girl, who remained respectful and silent. 'Did you not hear what I was playing?' he murmured. 'Oh yes--a synagogue medley,' she replied quietly. 'They publish it on the East Side, _nicht wahr_?' 'East Side?' He was outraged. 'I know nothing of East Side.' Her absolute unconsciousness of his spiritual tumult, her stolidity before this spectacle of his triumphant genius, her matter-of-fact acceptance of his racial affinity, her refusal to be impressed by the heroism of a Hebrew pianoforte solo, all she said and did not say, jarred upon his quivering nerves, chilled his high emotion. 'Will you say I shall have much pleasure?' he added coldly. The red-haired maid nodded and was gone. Rozenoffski went mechanically to his cabin, scarcely seeing the worshippers he plodded through; presently he became aware that he was changing his linen, brushing his best frock-coat, thrilling with pleasurable excitement. Anon he was tapping at the well-known door. A voice--of another sweetness--cried 'Come!' and instantly he had the sensation that his touch on the handle had launched upon him, as by some elaborate electric contrivance, a tall and beautiful American, a rustling tea-gown, a shimmer of rings, a reek of patchouli, and a flood of compliment. 'So delightful of you to come--I know you men of genius are _farouches_--it was awfully insolent of me, I know, but you have forgiven me, haven't you?' 'The pleasure is mine, gracious lady,' he murmured in German. '_Ach_, so you are a German,' she replied in the same tongue. 'I thought no American or Englishman could have so much divine fire. You see, _mein Herr_, I do not even know your name--only your genius. Every afternoon I have lain here, lapped in your music, but I might never have had the courage to thank you had you not played that marvellous thing just now--such delicious heartbreak, such adorable gaiety, and now and then the thunder of the gods! I'm afraid you'll think me very ignorant--it wasn't Grieg, was it?' He looked uncomfortable. 'Nothing so good, I fear--a mere impromptu of my own.'