The son of Sarah Kantor obeyed, leaning his short, rather narrow form in silhouette against the closed door. In spite of slimly dark evening clothes worked out by an astute manager to the last detail in boyish effects, there was that about him which defied long-haired precedent. Slimly and straightly he had shot up into an unmannered, a short, even a bristly-haired young manhood, disqualifying by a close shave for the older school of hirsute virtuosity. But his nerves did not spare him. On concert nights they seemed to emerge almost to the surface of him and shriek their exposure. "Just feel my hands, ma. Like ice." She dived down into her large silk what-not of a reticule. "I've got your fleece-lined gloves here, son." "No--no! For God's sake--not those things! No!" He was back at the door again, opening it to a slit, peering through. "They're bringing more seats on the stage. If they crowd me in I won't go on. I can't play if I hear them breathe. Hi--out there--no more chairs! Pa! Hancock--" "Leon, Leon, ain't you ashamed to get so worked up? Close that door. Have you got a manager who is paid just to see to your comfort? When papa comes, I'll have him go out and tell Hancock you don't want chairs so close to you. Leon, will you mind mamma and sit down?" "It's a bigger house than the royal concert in Madrid, ma. Why, I never saw anything like it! It's a stampede. God! this is real--this is what gets me, playing for my own! I should have given a concert like this three years ago. I'll do it every year now. I'd rather play before them than all the crowned heads on earth. It's the biggest night of my life. They're rioting out there, ma--rioting to get in." "Leon, Leon, won't you sit down, if mamma begs you to?" He sat then, strumming with all ten fingers upon his knees. "Try to get quiet, son. Count--like you always do. One--two--three--" "Please, ma--for God's sake--please--please!" "Look--such beautiful roses! From Sol Ginsberg, an old friend of papa's he used to buy brasses from eighteen years ago. Six years he's been away with his daughter in Munich. Such a beautiful mezzo they say, engaged already for Metropolitan next season." "I hate it, ma, if they breathe on my neck." "Leon darlink, did mamma promise to fix it? Have I ever let you play a concert when you wouldn't be comfortable?" His long, slim hands suddenly prehensile and cutting a streak of upward gesture, Leon Kantor rose to his feet, face whitening. "Do it now! Now, I tell you. I won't have them breathe on me. Do you hear me? Now! Now! Now!" Risen also, her face soft and tremulous for him, Mrs. Kantor put out a gentle, a sedative hand upon his sleeve. "Son," she said, with an edge of authority even behind her smile, "don't holler at me!" He grasped her hand with his two and, immediately quiet, lay a close string of kisses along it. "Mamma," he said, kissing again and again into the palm, "mamma--mamma." "I know, son; it's nerves!"