In the interval an attendant came on to the platform and altered the position of the piano. Everybody asked: 'What's that for?' For the new position was quite an unusual one; it brought the tail of the piano nearer to the audience, and gave a better view of the keyboard to the occupants of the seats in the orchestra behind the platform. 'It's a question of the acoustics, that's what it is,' observed a man near me, and a woman replied: 'Oh, I see!' When Diaz returned and seated himself to play the Berceuse, I saw that he could look at me without turning his head. And now, instead of flushing, I went cold. My spine gave way suddenly. I began to be afraid; but of what I was afraid I had not the least idea. I fixed my eyes on my programme as he launched into the Berceuse. Twice I glanced up, without, however, moving my head, and each time his burning blue eyes met mine. (But why did I choose moments when the playing of the piece demanded less than all his attention?) The Berceuse was a favourite. In sentiment it was simpler than the great pieces that had preceded it. Its excessive delicacy attracted; the finesse of its embroidery swayed and enraptured the audience; and the applause at the close was mad, deafening, and peremptory. But Diaz was notorious as a refuser of encores. It had been said that he would see a hall wrecked by an angry mob before he would enlarge his programme. Four times he came forward and acknowledged the tribute, and four times he went back. At the fifth response he halted directly in front of me, and in his bold, grave eyes I saw a question. I saw it, and I would not answer. If he had spoken aloud to me I could not have more clearly understood. But I would not answer. And then some power within myself, hitherto unsuspected by me, some natural force, took possession of me, and I nodded my head.... Diaz went to the piano. He hesitated, brushing lightly the keys. 'The Prelude in F sharp,' my thought ran. 'If he would play that!' And instantly he broke into that sweet air, with its fateful hushed accompaniment--the trifle which Chopin threw off in a moment of his highest inspiration. 'It is the thirteenth Prelude,' I reflected. I was disturbed, profoundly troubled. The next piece was the last, and it was the Fantasia, the masterpiece of Chopin.