had suddenly quivered.

"I should think so," said Mrs. Mansfield. "This evening probably means
more to Madame Sennier even than to her husband."

Charmian said nothing more till the end of the evening. Beneath the
radiant coolness of her demeanor, the air of triumphant self-possession,
she was secretly quivering with excitement. She feared to betray
herself. Soon she was spellbound by the music of the last act and by the
wonderful performance of Annie Meredith. As she listened, leaning
forward in the box, and always feeling intensely the nearness to her of
Heath, and of Heath's strong musical talent, she remembered something
she had once said in the drawing-room in Berkeley Square, "We want a new
note." Here was the new note in French music, the new talent given to
the wondering and delighted world to-night. To-morrow doubtless Europe
and America would know that the husband of the red-haired woman opposite
had taken his place among the famous men to whom the world must pay
attention. From to-morrow thousands of art lovers would be looking
toward Jacques Sennier with expectation, the curious expectation of
those who crave for fresh food on which they may feed their intellects,
and their souls. The great tonic of a new development in art was
offered to all those who cared to take it by the man who would probably
be staring from behind the footlights at the crowd in a few moments.

If only the new note had been English!

"It shall be! It shall be!" Charmian repeated to herself.

She looked again and again at Madame Sennier, striving to grasp the
secret of her will for another, even while she gave herself to the
enchantment of the music. But for that woman in all probability the
music would never have been given life. Somewhere, far down in the
mystery of an individual, it would have lain, corpse-like. A woman had
willed that it should live. She deserved the homage she had received,
and would receive to-night. For she had made her man do a great thing,
because she had helped him to understand his own greatness.

Suddenly, out of the almost chaotic excitement caused in Charmian by the
music, and by her secret infatuation, concrete knowledge seemed to
detach itself and to arise. As, when she had looked at the island in the
Algerian Garden, she had felt "I shall be here some day with him!" so
now she seemed to be aware that the future would show a brilliant crowd
assembled in some great theater, not for Jacques Sennier,