We bought standing room, and stood waiting in the foyer near the table, where Mme. Paderewska was selling her dolls for the benefit of destitute Poland. I looked at those dolls and wanted one so much that I was afraid I couldn’t enjoy the concert. They were masterpieces! I shall make myself one—perhaps like the Polish Faust, a gorgeous man with fawn-colored kid boots; or perhaps like the Zaza, a little girl of pale pink sateen with somewhat the look of Mlle. Pogani in the Cubist exhibition. She had hair of red-brown silk thread, and her dress was emerald-green. She had little pellets of bright pink satin sewed on to make cheeks,—“and she seets always on the piano when Mr. Paderewski practices.” I wandered back to my standing-room and looked indifferently at the crowded house. There were too many people, I thought. And then with tears hurting my eyes and an ache in my throat choking me I called out: “There—there’s Tagore—in the third box!”—and made them look quickly so they wouldn’t see me cry. There he sat in the first chair in a robe the color of grass-cloth and a pale violet cap upon his head. From where we stood it looked like a high forage-cap, but soft; and he wore great glasses made of horn. There were some East Indians with him, and two Americans—just men. I watched him until I was almost in a trance: the angle at which his head was put on, the cheek bones that were like an extra feature.... Everything that lies beyond the reach of thought and wonder seemed concentrated in that dark Stranger. I trembled, frightened by my imagination and a little melancholy. At last Paderewski came out to his piano, _elegante_ and impenetrable. I seemed to see him quite differently beside Tagore—a bright heaven beside a still universe. I was so filled there was no room left in me for the music. Once he came back and played Schumann’s _Warum_: a nice touch: Warum for that great Wonderer. What could our _Warum_ sound like to him? All the while I watched Tagore who sat so motionless; not seeming to be there, until Paderewski began some brilliant harsh thing of Liszt’s, when he smiled and leaned forward. Was he thinking “What wonderful children these are?” After the concert we ran down to the front row for the encores. The theatre was filled with all its noises of banging seats and slamming doors and people moving. Paderewski looked out at them as he played, eyes narrowed, watching with contempt: a great cat! He stopped, waiting in silken rage for quiet, then smiled, raising his hand and striking the keys with a sheathed paw. Tagore went behind, and we waited to see him by the stage entrance, in a narrow paved alley under hanging iron stairways. How he came out through the dusk, not looking, walking alone! And he went away on foot, simple and mysterious, into the crowds.