“Bennie!” His voice stopped the music with the player’s hands suspended in the air, such was its savage earnestness. “Never again that number, Bennie. Levering’s a Jewisher now. Don’t forget that, hey?” Hal patted his friend on the shoulder. “S’all right, Bennie, but there’s been some changes made.” The rehearsal went on under Levering’s direction, and when he was satisfied with it he turned to the piano and handed Bernstein several sheets of manuscript. “Here’s some new numbers that I’m going to try,” he said. “Hot dog!” Bernie murmured, as he bent his expert gaze on the neatly written sheets. Then an expression of bewilderment spread over his face. What was this stuff Hal was pulling? He glanced sideways at Levering, who was standing at the edge of the platform, his back turned. With a shake of his head, Bennie played a few bars; then Levering joined in, a new softness, a thrilling timbre, in his rich voice. Again the few in the room stopped their chatter and listened with puzzled expressions, which changed into real wonder and reluctant admiration as Hal sang: “Set me as a seal upon thine heart, As a seal upon thine arm, For love is strong as death, Jealousy is cruel as the grave. Stir not up nor awake my love Until he please.” When he had finished, a silence hung over the place. Hal turned to Bennie. “Try the next one,” he said quietly. And again he sang a verse from the Song of Solomon, set to a wailing accompaniment, that died away to a whisper, rose, swelled, and died away again. It was thrilling, strange, but “Can even Hal Levering get away with that stuff in a night club?” wondered Bennie. One or two jazz numbers followed, and Hal called off rehearsal. The word spread that Levering was back, and that night, when the lights were dimmed and the chorus twinkled through the opening number, the place was crowded beyond seating capacity. There was no sight of Levering until after Buck and Wing, those whirling cloggers, had done their turn. Then he appeared, and a burst of applause, punctuated by the staccato click of the little wooden hammers on the tables, showed that he still had a loyal following. Bennie, at the piano, nervously settled himself, waiting for the noise to cease. Then Hal broke into one of his new songs, those songs that are as famous now as “Eli, Eli.” The reaction of the crowd was amazing. Some wept, some applauded, others sat silent, wondering. It was so unexpected, so sudden, that before they realized it Hal had bowed quietly and left the room. Later he sang several jazz songs, but after the applause he did not join his patrons at their tables; he left the room in spite of clamorous shouts of “C’mere, Hal,” “Have a lil one with us, Hal?” “Draw up a chair, Hal.” Sitting at one of the tables were Lord and Lady Greville, Nancy Bromley, and John Taylor. If Levering had noticed the presence of these companions of his week-end at Constance Corthwaite’s, he gave no sign.