The crimson of excitement on her cheeks, emphasizing her creamy pallor, she rose from her sheath of almond-green velvet like a flame-crowned flower upon its stem. A cluster of gardenias fastened upon one shoulder, nestled against the warmer tints of her flesh. "Anne, confess that you are nervous as the devil," giggled Gerald, slipping into a seat behind her. "You look more like an American beauty than the gardenias you affect of late." He glanced jealously at the flowers she was wearing. Her flush deepened. Gardenias were Alexis' favorite flower and he sent them to her daily. If she failed to wear them he was heart-broken. "It is natural for Madame to be nervous to-night." Caldenas interposed his plump person soothingly. "Mr. Petrovskey is her friend, is he not? And in a sense her protégé. It is only human to be a little excited now." Anne forced a grateful smile. But his reminder had increased her apprehension to the point of terror. As she looked over the packed house she shuddered involuntarily. Before just such an audience as this had Alexis failed, an eager, anticipatory audience, filling every seat, overflowing into the foyer, into a standing mob. Only then it had been as soloist with the Philharmonic. To-night he was alone, unsupported except by his accompanist. And he had chosen to begin his recital with the very concerto upon which he had broken down, that haunting, melodious, most sensuous of concertos by Lalo, known as the Spanish. True, he had played it magnificently before her many times in the last few weeks. But she had always recoiled with instinctive superstition as his audacity in repeating it upon his very first reappearance before the public. Alexis had laughed at her fear scornfully. Without the concerto, his triumph would be only half a triumph, an admission of weakness, both to himself and to the public, and a very poor tribute to Anne who had given him back to the world. As she recalled these words, she clenched her icy hands. A thrill of exultation coursed through her stage-fright. Yes, she was giving Alexis Petrovskey back to the world. Would the gift prove worthy? But meanwhile there was a heightened stir in the audience; a rising murmur as of new-born and rushing wind in a dense forest. The next moment, volcanic applause shook the house. Applause full of enthusiasm and tribute, containing an undercurrent of sympathy which filled Anne's eyes with a mist of tears. Alexis and his accompanist had come on to the stage, and the American public was evincing not only its love of art, but its unconquerable tenderness of heart. Through the mist of tears, Anne caught the brilliant gleam of Alexis' eyes, as they eagerly sought her own. Now he was bowing to the vociferous house. Looking swiftly towards Anne's box, he repeated his bow. The personal intent was unmistakable. As he turned to take the key from Paul Leon, a veritable battalion of opera-glasses was leveled upon Anne and her companions.