As a matter of fact, he was in a mortal funk. He would not have believed it possible that he could be afraid of a crowd of strangers, who were nothing to him and to whom he was nothing. But infinite things were at stake. If he failed, if he made an ass of himself, he pushed further away, if not altogether out of sight, the dream in which for the last six months he had worked and lived. On the other hand, if he succeeded, if to-morrow's papers took his name out of the gutter, just as four years ago they had helped to kick it in, his dream would be transmuted into hope. The violin he clutched so desperately was no mere instrument of music, but an instrument of redemption, the token of that dear salvation which if a man but see truly he must grasp. Six months had gone by since he left Sparrow Hall, and during them he had worked desperately with scanty rest. He had flung his proud self-will and undisciplined love of prettiness into mechanical exercises for fingers and bow, he had subjected his taste for the tuneful and sentimental to Herr von Gleichroeder's dissonantal preferences. But he had been happy--his dream had always been with him, and had breathed all the sentimentality of hope into the dry bones of Chabrier, Chausson and Strauss. He had found it everywhere--even in his bow exercises. He was happy, too, in his environment--the companionship of his fellow-students with their young, clear spirits and enthusiasm. Most of them knew his story, but in their careless code it did not tell much against him, for every one admired him for his originality and liked him for his desperate pluck. So Nigel found a new form of gratification for that strange part of him born in prison. The companionship of an unripe little school-girl with her slang, the sight of children dancing in the dusk, had been succeeded by many a racket with young men and women of his own age--Bohemian supper-parties, followed by impromptu concerts or startling variety turns; expeditions in rowdy throngs to a theatre or music-hall; small, friendly meals with some fellow-enthusiast, who confessed in private an admiration for Gounod.... It was a draught of new life to him; he loved it all--down to the constant musical jargon, the endless "shop." Much of his bitterness was leaving him, his sullen bouts were rarer, even the lines of his face were growing rounded and more boyish. Chausson's "Chanson Perpetuelle" drawled and wailed its way towards a close. Nigel's muscles tightened to prevent a shudder. To-night the hall would be full of the friends and relations of the students; they had come out to encourage their respective prodigies, and his item on the programme would belong, so to speak, to no one. He almost wished he had not forbidden Len and Janey to come--at least they would have made a noise.