Nello hastened with quick strides in the direction of Dean Street. His one fear was that Péron might have already passed away. It would be heart-rending if he were not alive to hear the splendid news. But the vital flame, although very low, was still burning. The old man had had a long sleep, the sleep of exhaustion. By some strange effort of will, he had allayed the impending dissolution, had awoke about the expected time of Nello's return, and was sitting up in bed, propped up against the pillows, awaiting the arrival of the young man whom he had grown to regard as a son. "It is well, I can see," he said in the low, husky voice that was so soon to be hushed for ever. "It is well. Triumph is written all over your face. You have scored an even greater success than you anticipated, eh?" Nello sank on his knees beside the bed, at which his sister had devotedly seated herself, to watch the least movement of the dying man. He possessed himself of one of the long, wasted hands--those hands which had once made such eloquent music--and kissed it reverently. "All thanks to you, my more than father. There was a trying moment. My first piece did not touch them much, and the Bauquel _claque_, as Degraux warned me would be the case, did their best to hiss me down. Then I set my teeth and vowed that I would not be a failure and return home disgraced. I played that little romance, with my variations. I finished in a storm of applause." "Ah!" sighed Péron amongst his pillows, a wan smile lighting his livid face. "That is your masterpiece. That would always stir the dullest audience." "And listen, dear good Papa. Degraux was so pleased with my success that he has paid me double the fee he promised. No more short commons for any of us. Little Anita here shall keep the purse and maintain us in royal state." He threw his head back and laughed almost hysterically. "Oh, it must be a dream, a wild, mad dream. I cannot be the same Nello Corsini who, a few weeks ago, used to play in the streets for coppers." Then he recovered from his overwrought mood. There was more yet to be told to this kind old man. "Then, dear Papa, I had an adventure--it was the first-fruits of success. As I came out, a tall footman in livery accosted me; he was to lead me to the carriage of the Princess Zouroff." Péron's voice grew a little stronger. "The mother of the Russian Ambassador, Boris Zouroff. In the long ago I used to know her. Her husband was a brute. She has two children, Boris and a girl much younger than he. I have heard that Boris is a brute like his father. Go on, Nello. Finish your adventure; but I can guess what is coming." "The Princess is giving a reception to-morrow evening at the Embassy in Chesham Place. She has asked me to play, at my own price."