She laid the violin to her cheek and, her eyes now aside and high, drew a strong, firm bow across the strings. When she did this she drew out the heart and soul from the body of David Joslin. But David Joslin never really had heard the violin before. Of actual music he knew nothing. He had never heard a master of any instrument in all his life. But the sound of the violin itself, last keen climax in this atmosphere of exhilaration, where now the young spirit of this one fragile girl commanded the strong masculine spirit of all these massed men—for David Joslin constituted an overwhelming experience. She finished her number, and when the roar of applause had ceased turned to her associate, who seated herself at the piano. They both sang—one of their duets; and as part of this Polly Pendleton herself danced—whirling about in pirouettes where her toes seemed scarce to find a footing, her round, strong limbs insouciantly exposed. She was but the spirit of youth, of life, of joy. Now certain of the critical began to demand something known earlier as especially delectable. “Sing us the real one, Polly!” they cried. “Sing us ‘The Only Man,’ why don’t you?” “Yes; that’s it—that’s it—give us ‘The Only Man,’ Polly;” and vigorous handclapping ensued. She stood facing them again at the little raised dais, her lips parted, her white teeth visible under her short, smiling upper lip. She was always eager to please, counting not the cost of herself—a rich and generous soul indeed was hers. Not so much her fault as ours was it that she was here, one of the sacrifices, the perishing imperishables of the world. But Polly began to sing. The words matter little. It was the chorus which had brought her fame. She left the dais now, and advanced down the long table, her whole face a-laugh. Her eyes were fixed on a certain large, red-faced and very bald gentleman who sat halfway down the table at the left. Him she approached, singing as she came. She bent above him, put an arm about his face, a hand under his chin, and drew his head back as she bent above and sang to him. “For you are my Baby!” sang Polly Pendleton. “You are my Baby! You’re the only, only, _only_ man for me.” Roars of laughter greeted this. They sang in chorus with her: “You’re the only, only, only man for me!” “Come here, Polly,” called this man and that. “This way! You certainly are the only girl for me.” But Polly Pendleton was back at the head of the table once more, still singing, still light of foot, still gay of song. She stood and faced them just for a moment. Something she saw which seemed to arrest her own attention—a grave, unsmiling face, with eyes like coals, a white face which looked straight at hers....