How he had got himself into the programme Joan could not
understand. Managerial watchfulness must have gone to sleep for once. He
played Scotch melodies, and the Parisians liked them, and when he had
finished they called him back. Joan and her friends occupied a box close
to the stage. The wooden-looking Scot glanced up at her, and their eyes
met. And as the applause died down there rose the first low warning
strains of the Pibroch. Joan sat up in her chair and her lips parted.
The savage music quickened. It shrilled and skrealed. The blood came
surging through her veins.
And suddenly something lying hidden there leaped to life within her
brain. A mad desire surged hold of her to rise and shout defiance at
those three thousand pairs of hostile eyes confronting her. She clutched
at the arms of her chair and so kept her seat. The pibroch ended with
its wild sad notes of wailing, and slowly the mist cleared from her eyes,
and the stage was empty. A strange hush had fallen on the house.
She was not aware that her hostess had been watching her.
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