and below the hand-clapping, filled and inflamed the whole interior.  The conductor, recovering from a collapse, turned round and bowed low with his hand on his shirt-front; his hair fell over his forehead; he straightened himself and threw the hair back again, and so he kept on, time after time casting those plumes to and fro.  At last, sated with homage, he thought of justice, and pointed to the band and smiled with an unconvincing air of humility, as if saying:  “I am naught.  Here are the true heroes.”  And on the end of his stick he lifted to their feet eighty men, whose rising drew invigorated shouts.  Enthusiasm reigned; triumph was accomplished.  Even when the applause had expired, enthusiasm still reigned; and every person present had the illusion of a share in the triumph.  It was a great night at the Promenades.

George and Marguerite looked at each other happily.  They both were inspired by the feeling that life was a grand thing, and that they had reached suddenly one of the summits of existence.  George, observing the excitement in her eyes, thought how wonderful it was that she too should be excited.

“What was that piece?” she asked.

“I don’t quite know,” he said.  “There don’t appear to be any programmes about.”  He wished he had been able to identify the piece, but he was too content to be ashamed of his ignorance.  Moreover, his ignorance was hers also, and he liked that.

The music resumed.  He listened, ready to put himself into the mood of admiration if it was the Glazounov item.  Was it Glazounov?  He could not be certain.  It sounded fine.  Surely it sounded Russian.  Then he had a glimpse of a programme held by a man standing near, and he peered at it.  “No. 4.  Elgar—­Sea-Pictures.”  No. 5 was the Glazounov.

“It’s only the Elgar,” he said, with careless condescension, perceiving at once, by the mere virtue of a label, that the music was not fine and not Russian.  He really loved music, but he happened to be at that age, from which some people never emerge, at which the judgment depends almost completely on extraneous suggestion.

“Oh!” murmured Marguerite indifferently, responding to his tone.

“Glazounov’s next,” he said.

“I suppose we couldn’t sit down,” she suggested.

Yet it was she who had preferred the Promenade to the Grand Circle or the Balcony.

“We’ll find something,” he said, with his usual assurance.  And in the corridor that surrounded the hemicycle they climbed up on to a narrow ledge in the wall and sat side by side in perfect luxury, not dreaming that they were doing anything unusual or undignified.  As a fact, they were not.  Other couples were perched on other ledges, and still others on the cold steam-pipes.  A girl with a big face and heavy red lips sat alone, lounging, her head aslant.  She had an open copy of Home Notes in one hand.  Elgar had sent the simple creature into an ecstasy, and she never stirred; probably she did not know anyone named Enwright.  Promenaders promenaded in and out of the corridor, and up and down the corridor, and nobody troubled to glance twice either at the heavy-lipped, solitary girl or at the ledged couples.