of composing after tea, from five or five-thirty
onward. And Fan frequently appeared at the studio door about half-past
four, turned slightly sideways with an expectant glance into the large
room with the book-lined walls, the dim paintings, and the
orange-colored curtains. A faint air of innocent coquetry hung about
her. After a pause and a smile from Heath, she would move forward with
hasty confidence, sometimes reaching the hearthrug with a run. She was
made welcome, petted, apparently attended to with a whole mind. But
while she delivered her soul of its burden, at great length and with
many indrawn breaths and gusts of feeling, Heath was often saying to
himself, "Am I provincial?"

The word rankled now that Charmian had spoken out with such almost
impertinent abruptness. Had he then lost faith in Mrs. Mansfield? She
had never said that she wished him different from what he was. And
indirectly she had praised his music. He knew it had made a powerful
impression upon her. Nevertheless, he could not forget Charmian's
words. Nor could he help linking her with Mrs. Shiffney in his mind.

Fan pulled at his sleeve, raising her voice. He was reminded of a little
dog clawing to attract attention.

"Yes, Fantail! I mean no, of course not! If Masterman refuses to take a
bath, of course you are obliged to punish him. Yes, yes, I know. Wear
something? What? What's that? Like you? But he's a man. Very well, we'll
get him a pair of trousers. No, I won't forget. Yes, like mine, long
ones like mine. It'll be all right. Take care with that cup. I think
mother must be wanting you. Press the bell hard. Well, use your thumb
then. That's it--harder. There, you see, mother does want you. Harriet
says so."

Harriet, discreet almost to dumbness though she was, was capable of
receiving a hint conveyed by her master's expressive eyebrows. And Fan
passed on, leaving Heath alone with his piano. He played what he had
played to Mrs. Mansfield to reassure himself. But he was not wholly
reassured. And he knew that desire for a big verdict which often
tortures the unknown creator. This was a new and, he thought, ugly phase
in his life. Was he going to be like the others? Was he going to crave
for notoriety? Why had the words of a mere girl, of no unusual
cleverness or perception, had such an effect upon him? How thin she had
looked that day when she emerged from her furs. That was before she
started for Africa. The journey had surely made a gr