She was overwhelmed with fright. He might think she was offering herself to him. If he were to take her home, were to ask-- "I'd like to get into a tram," she faltered. "I'm very tired." He whistled for a cab, which just then came swaying out of the fog. "No, no," she burst out, thinking of nothing but that she must not lightly forego the joy of his friendship. "Not with you--I must go home alone--on account--" She tore her arm from his and ran to the next stopping place so quickly that he was just about able to reach her before she jumped on the first tram that came along. She scarcely said good-by. The smile with which he looked after her was by no means melancholy. He might, he should triumph. She, Lilly Czepanek, was once again aspiring to the heights. * * * * * Three days later they met again; this time in a large company which had visited a _café chantant_, and was to wind up the evening at a respectable bodega. Unluckily somebody else took the seat at her side, which she had carefully reserved for him. That upset her. The champagne heated up everybody's spirits. Lilly, out of spite and boredom, drank more than was good for her. Provocative merriness burned in her eyes. Her cheeks took on the Baldwin apple hue that they all dearly loved. Her laughter rang out clear, her body moved more nonchalantly. Suddenly she heard a general outcry: "Lilly! Lilly! We want Lilly!" Terror stopped her pulse. She had never ventured to perform in his presence. In fact, she had not been asked to when he had been there, for then _he_ formed the centre of attraction. But she felt: "I can do it to-day. To-day I will show him what I am." She rose, brushed her hair from her forehead, and gave herself a little shake, as was her wont when she jerked aside the everyday Lilly, the craven-hearted Lilly, the Lilly of the oppressed feelings, the Lilly who feared to face her fellow-beings, the stiff-jointed Lilly. She made a dash and began. First she imitated the beautiful Otéro, and crowed and cuckooed. Her auditors rolled with laughter. Then she hit off certain cabaret stars. Sucking her fingers like an innocent babe, she sang in flute tones: "Please let me in your room." She croaked in a droll, bull-frog bass: "Once I was ambassador," and peeping from behind the clothes rack she cooed the song of the passionate dove: "Coo--coo--coo--kiek!" They insisted on her concluding with a fandango. She protested. In vain. They shoved the tables against the wall, and Lilly, making her own music through her teeth, whirled about the room more madly than ever before, and finally collapsed in a corner almost swooning. The tumult of applause promised never to subside. The women kissed her again and again, the men stroked her hair and arms, the stiff district attorney sounded a trumpet blast, and Richard, quite pale with pride, stood there in his Napoleon attitude, tugging at his moustache.