She rose to her feet, shadowing the stricken girl with her enormous bulk. Her face stared stonily in front of her. "This is what it has come to," she muttered. "This is his gratitude for a lifetime of devotion and sacrifice. I have worked myself to the bone that his genius might have every chance to develop. Now he throws me aside, as if I were an outgrown toy, and tells me he is going to manage his own life. He who couldn't even make out a check for himself or remember his own address!" Paralyzed with misery, Claire watched her aunt in a stupor of surprise. This was the first time she had ever known her to reveal any emotion stronger than contempt or a cold sort of anger. And the sight was shattering. Gathering herself together through sheer force of will, she helped her aunt back into the chair and patted the large veined hand timidly. "He can't mean it," she murmured. "He has been like this before, you know. He really couldn't leave you. Why, he'd be helpless all alone, and without his music." She choked back a sob. Alexis without his violin would be like another man bereft of all five senses. "No, no, he'll come back," she faltered pluckily. "Not for me. He doesn't need me, but for you, his mother." Mme. Petrovskey looked up into the piteous little face with a sort of hard compassion. "Poor Claire," she said more gently than she had spoken to her for years, "I sacrificed you for nothing, didn't I?" A slow blush spread over the girl's transparent features. She raised her head. "It was no sacrifice," she whispered. "It was my joy, my glory. I--I have always loved him so!" Then suddenly her eyes flashed. "If only we could write to him. If only we could get hold of him and tell him how broken you are. It was cruel of him not to leave us his address. Do you think we might inveigle it out of the chauffeur? What do you think, Aunt?" "That would be a confession of failure," answered the older woman. "Besides, you may be sure he was bound to secrecy. Now, leave me, Claire. I must be alone. I want to think. Take your dog and go out in the park. It will do you good. Perhaps, who knows, things aren't as hopeless as they look?" With a sudden return of her imperious manner, she waved Claire away. Heavy with dread, the girl put down Bébé, fastened the leash on to his bright collar and left the room. The strange chauffeur was still waiting by the hall door. He seemed her only hope now. She approached him with trembling knees. "If--if you will tell me where Mr. Petrovskey is I will make it worth your while," she said with a pathetic assumption of firmness. He stood up as she spoke. His nice blue eyes evaded hers apologetically. "I'm sorry, miss, but my orders were not to say anything. If there is no answer I must be going." He fidgeted, one hand on the door-knob. "Very well," she turned away to hide trembling lips. "There is no answer. You may go." "Very well, miss."