have spoken to her, could he have questioned her, could he have announced his presence, he would have learnt all and perhaps they would have found one another.
They might have found one another, they had all but found one another, and here Venik again said to himself, that he wanted her not. And once more his mind ran upon the solo of the first violin, her fainting, the curtain, her smiles, her bows, her thanks, then her escort home, their confidential conversation, the barouche, and at the end of it all, her humming melodies and the “Orphaned Child”—and out of the chaos again emerged the title “a theatrical princess.” If he had then wished to know and call her by name neatly and elegantly, he would not have shouted “Krista,” but “Oh! Theatrical Princess,” and there was humiliation to him in the expression.
So when Krista’s head once more vanished from the window and when the song and that day’s excitement was hushed for him, Venik hurried away from the spot not however stealthily to-day nor did he wander on the way. To-day he went direct to his temporary dwelling and on the road only “the orphaned child” kept buzzing in his head just as he had heard Krista hum it.
Next day he enquired for the manager of the orchestra, went to him and announced himself as a violinist and begged to be received into the orchestra.
