The thought of Len and Janey brought an additional stake into the game. He must succeed for their sakes too. He must justify to them his departure from Sparrow Hall. If he failed, they would look upon it as a mere piece of obstinate cruelty, they would plague him to return, and he, in all the sickness of failure, would find it hard to resist them. Another round of applause ... the "Chanson Perpetuelle" had ended, and the singer, a self-confident little contralto, came off, with the string quartet which had accompanied her. Herr von Gleichroeder bustled up, and there was some talk of an encore, which was in the end refused. Then he turned to Nigel. "You'd better go on at once. Here are two telegrams for you--but you mustn't wait." Nigel stuffed the two yellow envelopes into his pocket, and moved mechanically towards the stage. Two telegrams--a sick hope was in his heart--one was from Len, he knew; but the other ... Tony knew the date of his concert; perhaps.... He dared not think it, yet that "perhaps" made him hold his head high as he walked on the stage. He bowed stiffly. Von Gleichroeder had spent a long time trying to teach him a graceful bow. He remembered his last public appearance, and it made him not only stiff but a trifle hard. There was no applause at first--no one in the hall knew him; then a kind-hearted old lady felt sorry for the poor young man who had no one to encourage him, and gave a feeble clap, which was more disconcerting than silence. The accompanist struck the chord--his fiddle was soon in tune and he lifted it to his shoulder. A cold chill ran down his back--he had entirely forgotten the first bars of the Prelude. The accompanist had some preliminary business. Nigel listened to him in detached horror, as if he were the spectator of some dreadful scene with which he had absolutely no connection. He heard the music crashing through familiar phrases--only five bars more--only three--only one-- Then there was a pause-bar--a very long pause. Then suddenly he realised that he had been playing for some time. The violin was warm under his chin, the bow warm between his fingers. He knew that if he stopped to think about it all, he was lost. It was always fatal for him to think of his music as so many little black signs on paper, and it was nearly as fatal for him to think of it as so many movements of his bow or positions of his fingers. Von Gleichroeder had always had to combat his pupil's tendency to play almost entirely by ear, lost meanwhile in a kind of sentimental dream--in the transports of which he swayed violently from side to side and generally looked ridiculous.