ked for a
long time in an empty room.

It was nearly two o'clock, and the moon was waning, when the studio door
was opened to let in Heath. He was alone. Holding the door with one
hand, he stood and stared at the room, examined it with a sort of
excited and close attention. Then he took off his hat, shut the door,
laid hat and coat on the sofa, went to the table where Harriet had put
the tray, and poured out a glass of wine. He sighed, looked at the gold
of the wine, made beautiful by the lamplight, drank it, and sat down in
the worn armchair which faced the line of window. Then he lit a cigar,
leaned back, and smoked, keeping his eyes on the glass.

Upon the leaded panes the faint silver shifted, faded, and presently
died. Heath watched, and thought, "The moon gone!" He did not feel as if
he could ever wish to sleep again. The excitement within him was like a
ravaging disease. He was capable of excitement that never comes to the
ordinary man, although he took sedulous care to hide that fact. His
imagination bristled like a spear held by one alert for attack. What was
life going to do to him? What was he going to let it do?

Charmian Mansfield loved him, and believed in his genius, as he did not
believe, or had not till now believed in it. He was loved, he was
believed in, by the thin mystery of a modern girl, who had known many
men with talents, with names, with big reputations. Under that
triumphant composure, that almost cruel banter, that whimsical airy
contempt, that cool frivolity of the minx, there was emotion, there was
love for him and for his talent. Always that night he thought of his
talent in connection with Charmian's love, he scarcely knew why. For how
long had she loved him? And why did she love him? He thought of his
body, and it surprised him that she loved that. He thought of his mind,
his imagination, his temper, his tricks, his faults, his habits. He
thought of his deep reserve, and of the intense emotion he sometimes
felt when he was quite alone and composing. Sometimes he felt like a
great fire then. Sometimes he felt brutal, almost savage, decisive in a
sense that was surely cruel. Did she suspect all that? Did she love all
that without consciously suspecting it? Sometimes, when he had been
working very hard, overworking perhaps, he felt inclined to do evil. If
she knew that!

But she did not, she could not know him. Why, then, did she love him?
Heath was not a conceited man, but he did not a