down she was feeling sad. The crowded room
beneath her was a small epitome of the world to which talent and genius
are flung, to be kissed or torn to pieces, perhaps to be kissed then
torn to pieces. And too often the listeners felt that they were superior
to those they listened to, because to them an appeal was made, because
they were in the position of judges. "Do we like her? Shall we take
her?" Many faces expressed such questions as this strange-looking woman
sang. "What does Mr. Brett think of her?" and eyes turned toward the
stout man leaning against the wall.

Did not Claude Heath do well to keep out of it all?

The question passed through Mrs. Mansfield's mind as she felt the
humiliation of the yoke which the world fastens on the artist's neck.
She had come to care for Heath almost a little jealously, but quite
unselfishly. She was able to care unselfishly, because she had given all
of herself that was passionate long ago to the man who was dead. Never
again could she be in love. Never again could she desire the closest
relation woman can be in with man. But she felt protective toward Heath.
She had the strong instinct, to shelter his young austerity, his
curious talent, his reserve, and his sensitiveness. And she was thinking
now, "If he goes yachting with Adelaide! If he allows Max to exploit
him! If he becomes known, perhaps the fashion, even the rage! And if
they get sick of him?" Yet what is talent for? Why is it given to any
man? Surely to be used, displayed, bestowed.

There was a hard and cruel expression on many of the listening faces
below. Singers were there, appraising; professional critics coldly
judging, jaded, sated, because they had heard too much of the wonderful
sounds of the world; men like Paul Lane, by temperament inclined to
sneer and condemn; women who loved to be in camps and whose idea of
setting an artist on high was to tear all other artists down.
Battlefields! Battlefields! Mrs. Mansfield was painfully conscious that
the last thing to be found in any circle of life is peace. Too often
there was poison in the cup which the artist had to drink. Too often to
attract the gaze of the world was to attract and concentrate many of the
floating hatreds of the world. The little old house near Petersburg
Place was a quiet refuge. Mrs. Searle, a kindly dragon, kept the door.
Yellow-haired Fan was the fairy within. The faded curtains of orange
color shut out very much that was black and horrid.