pers or something. I
had a little talk with her while I was waiting for Susan to come back."

"Did you tell her about the studio?"

"Let me see! Did I? Yes, I believe I did say something. You see, Claude,
it was the night of----"

"I know it was. But how could you----?"

"How could I suppose things said in a private conversation would ever
appear in print? I only said that you had a studio because you composed
and wanted quiet, and that I had been picking up a few old things to
make it look homey. How extraordinary of Miss Gretch!"

"It has made me look very ridiculous. I am quite unknown, and therefore
it is impossible for the public to be interested in me. Miss Gretch is
certainly a very inefficient journalist. Elgar! Delius too! I wonder she
didn't compare me with Scriabine while she was about it. How hateful it
is being made a laughing-stock like this."

"Oh, nobody reads those papers, I expect. Still, Miss Gretch----"

"Gretch! What a name!" said Claude.

His anger vanished in an abrupt fit of laughter, but he started for the
studio in half an hour looking decidedly grim. When he had gone Charmian
picked up the torn cuttings which were lying on the carpet. She had been
very slow in finishing breakfast that day.

Since her meeting with Jacob Crayford her mind had run perpetually on
opera. She could not forget his words, spoken with the authority of the
man who knew, "Opera's the only thing nowadays, the only really big
proposition." She could not forget that he had left England to "put
Europe through his sieve" for a composer who could stand up against
Jacques Sennier. What a chance there was now for a new man. He was being
actively searched for. If only Claude had written an opera! If only he
would write an opera now!

Charmian never doubted her husband's ability to do something big. Her
instinct told her that he had greatness of some kind in him. His music
had deeply impressed her. But she was sure it was not the sort of thing
to reach a wide public. It seemed to her against the trend of taste of
the day. There was an almost terrible austerity in it, combined, she
believed, with great power and originality. She longed to hear some of
it given in public with the orchestra and voices. She had thought of
trying to "get hold of" one of the big conductors, Harold Dane, or
Vernon Randall, of trying to persuade him to give Claude a hearing at
Queen's Hall. Then a certain keen prudence had held her back. A voic