The magnificent toned piano absorbed her whole soul, and she was soon almost unconscious of time or surroundings. After playing the song over two or three times, the young man motioned for her to sing it. She did so, and with such an intelligence of expression and such a ready ear that both the manager and the composer were highly delighted. Marion rehearsed the piece several times in the next four days, first with the piano accompaniment and then with a full orchestra. The afternoon before the concert she rehearsed for the last time, and as she hurried home to Dollie, she was flushed with excitement. “I don’t quite understand about the concert,” she said, anxiously. “It is to be in the big hall that Mr. Vondergrift owns, and there’s another hall called ‘The Olio’ right across the street that is also to be opened with a concert this evening. There are a dozen or more people to sing, or do something at Mr. Vondergrift’s concert, for, of course, he wishes his to be the most attractive.” “What kind of people are they?” asked Dollie, who was sitting at her typewriter. She was so much better now that she could practice daily. “That is what I can’t understand,” said Marion slowly. “They can all sing fairly well, and some of them are quite pretty, but some way they seem to me to be very rude—I might almost say, vulgar.” “What a pity you should have to mix with them,” said Dollie. “Oh, I don’t!” was Marion’s quick answer. “Mr. Vondergrift has managed that! Why, he lets me wait my turn in a little room all by myself, and to-day he brought me a delicious little luncheon!” “How lovely of him!” said Dollie, going on with her work. Not once did it seem to either of these simple girls that Mr. Vondergrift’s attentions meant anything more than kindness. “See here, Dollie!” cried Marion, with a jolly laugh, “they’ve actually advertised that I am to sing to-night, only they’ve given me a queer Italian name. I suppose they are trying to make out that I am some great singer.” Dollie looked at the programme that Marion held out to her. “Signorita Ila de Pailoa,” she read, in an amused voice. “What a terrible name! And what a lot of deceit! Why in the world couldn’t he have called you just plain Marion Marlowe?” “Oh, that wouldn’t do at all! He explained it to me,” said Marion, a little dubiously. “The public insist upon having foreigners, so he is obliged to fool them. And, besides, Dollie, my name would not suit for another reason—I’m only a country girl, who has had her name in all the papers.” “You have, indeed, but it was always as a heroine!” said Dollie, proudly. “First they told all about your rescuing me, and then the way they spoke of you at the fire was simply delightful!” “Well, I’ve had quite enough of it,” said Marion, decidedly. “I shall be glad to be able to stay in the background in future.”