The shock was of such severity that at first I had scarcely noticed it. What? My aunt not going to the concert? That meant that I could not go. But it was impossible that I should not go. I could not conceive my absence from the concert--the concert which I had been anticipating and preparing for during many weeks. We went out but little, Aunt Constance and I. An oratorio, an amateur operatic performance, a ballad concert in the Bursley Town Hall--no more than that; never the Hanbridge Theatre. And now Diaz was coming down to give a pianoforte recital in the Jubilee Hall at Hanbridge; Diaz, the darling of European capitals; Diaz, whose name in seven years had grown legendary; Diaz, the Liszt and the Rubenstein of my generation, and the greatest interpreter of Chopin since Chopin died--Diaz! Diaz! No such concert had ever been announced in the Five Towns, and I was to miss it! Our tickets had been taken, and they were not to be used! Unthinkable! A photograph of Diaz stood in a silver frame on the piano; I gazed at it fervently. I said: 'I will hear you play the Fantasia this night, if I am cut in pieces for it to-morrow!' Diaz represented for me, then, all that I desired of men. All my dreams of love and freedom crystallized suddenly into Diaz. I ran downstairs to the breakfast-room. 'You aren't going to the concert, auntie?' I almost sobbed. She sat in her rocking-chair, and the gray woollen shawl thrown round her shoulders mingled with her gray hair. Her long, handsome face was a little pale, and her dark eyes darker than usual. 'I don't feel well enough,' she replied calmly. She had not observed the tremor in my voice. 'But what's the matter?' I insisted. 'Nothing in particular, my dear. I do not feel equal to the exertion.' 'But, auntie--then I can't go, either.' 'I'm very sorry, dear,' she said. 'We will go to the next concert.' 'Diaz will never come again!' I exclaimed passionately. 'And the tickets will be wasted.' 'My dear,' my Aunt Constance repeated, 'I am not equal to it. And you cannot go alone.' I was utterly selfish in that moment. I cared nothing whatever for my aunt's indisposition. Indeed, I secretly accused her of maliciously choosing that night of all nights for her mysterious fatigue. 'But, auntie,' I said, controlling myself, 'I must go, really. I shall send Lucy over with a note to Ethel Ryley to ask her to go with me.' 'Do,' said my aunt, after a considerable pause, 'if you are bent on going.'