Without looking at it, Virginia took it to the director of the orchestra, glad to escape the little scene. It seemed to her that the air was charged, and she knew that the wait had been too long already. She could hear the impatient stir outside. There was, indeed, a little stir of impatience in the hall. Two or three young ushers went up and down the aisles with pitchers of iced water, and the rear seats began to fill up with gentlemen who were eating cloves. The rest of the audience studied the program, expectant. “No. 2, Mrs. William Carter, solo,” appeared on it in fine type. “My daughter-in-law’s going to sing next,” said Mr. Carter, remembering the broken engagement and putting out a feeler. “Seen her yet, colonel?” “Saw her the other day.” The colonel clasped the top of his cane, leaning on it, and looking absently at an amazing pair of feet and ankles that he saw approaching from behind the palms. “She’s mighty pretty.” “Think so?” Mr. Carter smiled. “Notice her eyes? Something fawn-like about them--and velvety. We’ve got to calling her--among ourselves, of course--‘the wild fawn.’” At this moment one of the old ladies behind them interrupted. She tapped Mr. Carter’s shoulder with her fan. “I do like music,” she said in a loud whisper. “It’s so churchy. I can’t hear much, but I feel it down my spine. Now, tableaux--well, sometimes they’re not just the thing, but music for the church, it’s--it’s safe!” Colonel Denbigh, overhearing, pulled his mustache. His ear had caught the first notes of a piece that was not “churchy”; it was far too light and too fantastic. “The kind of tune that makes a fellow sit up and take notice,” the colonel thought. “I wonder----” He got no farther before he was drowned in applause. A small, graceful, shimmering figure had slipped out from behind the palms. Fanchon stood in the center of the stage, her slender arms raised and her hands clasped behind her head, her eyes bent downward, the shadowy hair framing a low, white brow, her red lips slightly parted. If she heard the applause, she did not heed it. She made no response; she only waited. Then, as the soft, seductive strains began to fill the hall with music, she began to sing--softly at first, then rising note by note until her clear soprano floated upward like the song of a bird. Then, just as the tension seemed to relax and a deep sigh of pleasure came from the most anxious of the audience, she began to dance. Still singing, she danced wonderfully, strangely, wildly. Her skirt, clinging and shimmering and floating at the edges, clung to her. It unfolded like a flower as she stepped, and folded again about her slender ankles, above the marvel of her dancing feet. She swayed lightly from side to side, her slender body the very embodiment of grace and motion, as her dancing seemed to be the interpretation of the music, subtle, seductive, wonderful. So might the daughter of Herodias have danced before Herod Antipas!