zalhambra was a vaudeville artist. his was the star act on each bill. he was undeniably a genius; it needed but a few bars of fortissimo plus crescendo to realize that he was a virtuoso of the first rank. when he played a rag the audience shouted with delight; but when he sprinkled torrential cadenzas through the dizzying syncopation, like some mighty giant tossing meteors into a handful of fire-crackers, something like an electric shock stirred his hearers.

he sat by the table in his dressing-room with angry storm-swept countenance. he had been capturing loud plaudits with his rag-time, until intoxicated with success, he swept into a tornado of music by moskowski. the applause died away; two ladies in the front row began chatting. the enraged artist jumped from the piano-stool, and shouting “pigs!” raced from the platform.

for five hundred dollars a week he had pranced to the admiring vaudeville audience; but once let the artist lay bare his soul in real music and whispering reaches his ear. but there was no use complaining, no one could understand his disgust.

“ugh! confound their impudence, i’ll make them listen yet to something else than rag.”

in the midst of these reflections, the trombone player of the orchestra came to him.

“come home to dinner with me, mr. zalhambra, you’ll p’raps find some folks there that will appreciate the dope you hand out.”

the disgusted artist got up and with a huge hand wiped his handkerchief across his perspiring brow. he was short and very thick set, with prominent forehead, bulging black eyes, coarse nose, thick red lips.

“thank you mr. newman, you’re a prince.”

in his overcoat mr. zalhambra seemed to fill the doorway as mrs. newman greeted him. a moment’s private talk and the hostess understood the situation. from the drawing-room a ripple of childish laughter reached their ears.

“didn’t know you had a family, mr. newman.”

“oh that is a little girl visiting us. my wife’s cousin is spending a week in calgary and has brought an animated bunch of alberta sage-brush with her.”

school having been closed a week for repairs miss gordon had brought betty to the shining city of her childish dreams.

everything at the dinner table was in keeping to betty’s eyes, from the translucent china cups to the dainty blown bubbles of confection served with ice-cream; all so fragile that even one of her small brown fingers might crush them. she laughed as she thought of the annihilating effect, should moses appear. the ices and the angel cake and the concocted kisses of whiteof-egg confirmed in her mind the suspicion that her wonderful holiday was a dream. “so your name is betty wopp?”

betty gazed shyly at her inquisitor. her brown eyes sparkled with the adventure of meeting a real live piannerist, as she called him. dinner was over and mr. zalhambra stood before the fire in the drawing-room grate. stooping to warm his large white hands over the flame, his hypnotic eyes reflected strangely the glow of the fire. he watched nell gordon as she sat stroking the flowing fair tresses of betty.

she was dressed in a simple velvet gown the color that the twilight sky takes just before the stars come out, sapphire blue. her red pouting lips were curved in a caressing smile, and her eyes rimmed with their black curling lashes were full of the joy of life. betty’s verdict, although punctuated by an interrogation point, had been correct when she first put the question to moses, “aint our new teacher lovely with her shinin’ blue eyes?”

mr. zalhambra’s gaze fell full on the girl and her color heightened under his ardent look.

“have you been to the show this week, miss gordon?” he turned from the fire and stood with his back to the cheerful blaze.

“not yet, but they must all go to-night.”

al newman arranged all the theatre parties for his wife and guests. he opened up the piano as he spoke and turned to the musician.

“some of the real stuff,” he requested, “just to make these folks realize they haven’t begun to live yet.”

the pianist sat easily at the piano and began the moskowski selection that had failed to create the expected furore in the afternoon. a cadenza that shivered down the spine like spray from a glacial torrent wakened the room. then he plunged into the first theme. his small audience listened spell-bound. betty’s eyes followed the fingers that leaped over the ivory keys like white flame. a subtle current began to play in the room. steadily it grew in power. magnetism to the nth degree was being generated. a tremendous chord brought the music to a close and the pianist to his feet. something in nell’s glance inspired him. he whirled about the room whistling and imitating some of the cadenzas and other passages from the selection just played. he gesticulated wildly with his hands, the passion for dramatic music oozing from his pores.

“ah miss gordon, i see you love the music too,” he murmured in her ear.

al newman took him by the arm, “we’ll have to leave for the show in eight minutes old boy, just a little funeral of your own now.”

the pianist took a long look at nell who had been visibly affected by his playing. misgivings that date back to eden were leaping into life in his breast. he had been in love more times than he could count, but here was the girl after all. he began a scherzo of his own composition. youth gathering flowers at the open mouth of a volcano. the melody was born to live forever. he was a genius. now nell knew it and her soul worshipped genius. howard eliot was far from her thoughts as she listened to the enchanting chain of melodies that poured forth.

“sit near the front so you can give me inspiration, miss gordon,” the musician said in an undertone as he stood hat in hand ready to hurry off for the first show.

“mrs. newman, may i come again,” he turned confidentially to his hostess, “i am head over ears in love with your charming cousin.”

mrs. newman smiled knowingly; she was familiar with his type, here to-day and gone to-morrow, with falling in love a convenient habit to give zest to the round of vaudeville performances. mr. zalhambra caught her smile of incredulity and murmured, “this time it is really fatal.”

the theatre was entirely darkened long enough to arrange the grand piano. the pianist approached the instrument to the plaudits of the crowded house. the insult to his audience in the afternoon had succeeded in spreading his fame and a packed house greeted his evening performance. he turned and gazed intently toward the audience. he caught nell’s glance, who sat near the front as he had wished, and he smiled an acknowledgment of her presence.

he outrivalled all his efforts of the week, being recalled again and again. betty was delighted with the nods and smiles that the great man was directing towards nell and herself and mrs. newman; but from his attitude and the blushes of nell, more than one in the audience knew who was the fountain of his inspiration. the hopes of one stalwart young man in particular rapidly fell to zero.

the green-eyed monster, always seeking prey, had at last found a victim, and proceeded in true green-eyed fashion to wage ruthless warfare.