Her wide, blue eyes, as she played, were pleading, questioning, half fearful--as though she sensed, instinctively the presence of the spirit she could not understand; and felt, in spite of the pretense of the applause that had greeted her, the rejection of her offering.
Not only did the artist, in that moment of conception see his picture and feel the forces that were expressed by every character in the composition, but the title, even, came to him as clearly as if Conrad Lagrange had uttered it aloud, "The Feast of Materialism." Sibyl Andres finished her music, and quickly withdrew as if to escape the noisy applause.

Amid the sound of the clapping hands and boisterous voices, Mr.Taine, summoning the last of his wasted strength, again struggled to his feet.

With those claw-like hands he held to the table for support; while--shaking in every limb, his features twisted into a horrid, leering grin--he looked from face to face of the hushed and silent company; with glazed eyes in which the light that flickered so feebly was still the light of an impotent lust.
Twice, the man essayed to speak, but could not.

The room grew still as death.

Then, suddenly--as they looked--he lifted that yellow, skinny hand, to his wrinkled, ape-like brow, and--partially loosing, thus, his supporting grip upon the table--fell back, in a ghastly heap of diseased flesh and fine raiment; in the midst of which blazed the great diamond--as though the cold, pure beauty of the inanimate stone triumphed in a life more vital than that of its wearer.
His servants carried the unconscious master of the house from the room.
Mrs.Taine, excusing herself, followed.
In the confusion that ensued, the musicians, hidden behind the floral screen, struck up a lively air.