“Martin, I don’t believe you will ever learn to tell a decent, passable lie,” she said. “Why not tell me you had got cancer. Oh, there’s Suez Canal come back. Naughty! Monsieur Rusoff, won’t you tell him that he must. Just a scale or two. I adore scales, so satisfactory, are they not--so expected--as if it was a music-lesson. No? How tiresome of you.” Karl laid his hand on Martin’s arm. “No, my dear lady,” he said. “He’s never to play except when he wants to. But if you really want a little more music, and I----“ “Ah, but how enchanting of you. Monsieur Rusoff is going to play. Surely, dear Monica, you will wait. You are not going yet?” “Desolated, Violet, but Stella says she feels a little faint. The hot room, I suppose. She is waiting for me outside. How deliciously you play, Mr. Challoner. I suppose you practise a great deal. Won’t you come some day and----“ She broke off, for Martin had simply turned his back on her, and was firmly edging his way through the crowd to the door. Then Lady Monica’s maternal instinct positively leaped to a conclusion, and Martin’s rudeness was completely forgiven. “But I can’t resist waiting to hear Monsieur Rusoff,” she said. “I thought he never played at private houses. How clever of you, dear Violet. I wonder if you could get him to play for me. Stella will sit down and wait for me, no doubt.” But before Karl struck the first chord, Martin had won (not to say pushed) his way through the hushed crowd, and found Stella sitting outside in the other drawing-room. Every one had flocked in to hear the music, and they were alone. His foot was noiseless on the thick carpet, and he was but a yard or two from her when she raised her eyes and saw him. Then with a little choking cry, only half articulate, he came close to her. All the excitement and fire in which his life was passed was cold ashes compared to this moment, and his heart thumped riotously against his chest. Twice he tried to speak, but his trembling lips would not form the words, and she waited, her eyes still fixed on his. Then suddenly he threw his arms out. “It is no good trying,” he said. “But I love you! I--I love you!” Oh, the clumsy, bald statement! But Life and Death meant less than that word. “Oh, Martin,” she said, “I have waited--I--I don’t know what I am saying.” “Waited?” he asked, and his eyes glowed like hot coals. Then he laughed. “And you never told me,” he said. “If it was not you, I should never forgive you. And if it was not you, I should not care.” “Isn’t that nonsense?” she asked. “Yes, probably. Who cares? Stella! Oh, my star!” He flung his arms round her. “My star, my star,” he cried again. For one moment she could not but yield to him. “Yes, yes,” she whispered; “but Martin, Martin,” and her mouth wreathed into laughter, “it is an evening party. You must not; you must not.” He paused like a man dying of drought from whose lips the cup of water had been taken away.