Instantly a faintly luminous spark, Mariposa had noticed, bloomed into the full-blown radiance of a gas-jet turned full cock under a sheltering shade. It projected, what seemed in the dimness, a torrent of light on the keyboard of the piano, illuminating a pair of long masculine hands that had been moving over the keys in the darkness. Behind them the girl saw a shadowy shape, and then a spectacled face under a mane of drooping black hair was advanced into the light. “Has the lady her music?” said the face, in English, but with another variety of accent. She handed him the two songs she had brought, “Knowest thou the Land,” from Mignon, and “Farewell, Lochaber.” In the short period of her tuition her teacher had told her that she had sung “Lochaber” admirably. The man opened them, glanced at the names, and placing the “Mignon” aria on the rack, ran his hands lightly and carelessly over the keys in the opening bars of the accompaniment. “Whenever the lady is ready,” he said, with an air of patience, as though he had endured this form of persecution until all spirit of revolt was crushed. Mariposa drew back from him, wondering if she were to sing there and then. Lepine was behind her, and behind him she saw, with a sense of nostalgic loneliness, that the Italian conductor was shepherding Mrs. Willers and Shackleton into two seats on the aisle. They looked small and far away. “We will mount to the stage this way, Mademoiselle,” said Lepine, and he indicated a small flight of steps that rose from the corner of the orchestra to the lip of the stage above. He ascended first, she close at his heels, and in a moment found herself on the dark, deserted stage. It seemed enormous to her, stretching back into unseen regions where the half-defined shapes of trees and castles, walls and benches were huddled in dim confusion. Down the aisles between side-scenes she caught glimpses of vistas lit by wavering gleams of light. People moved here and there, across these vistas, their footsteps sounding singularly distinct. As she stood uneasily, looking to the right and left, a sudden sound of hammering arose from somewhere behind, loud and vibrant. Lepine, who was about to descend the stairs, turned and shouted a furious sentence in Italian down the opening. The hammering instantly ceased, and a man in white overalls came and stared at the stage. The impresario, charily--being short and fat--descended the stairs. “Now, Mademoiselle,” he said, speaking from the orchestra, “if you are ready, come forward a little, nearer the footlights there.”