en he had
been sent on by the strange force which lives and perpetually renews
itself in a man's own genius, when he is at the work he was sent into
the world to do. Now he had scourged himself on by a self-consciously
exercised force of will. He had set his teeth. He had called upon all
the dogged pertinacity which a man must have if he is to be really a man
among men. Always, far before him in the distance which must some day be
gained, gleamed the will-o'-the-wisp lamp of success. He had an object
now, which must never be forgotten, success. What had been his object
when he toiled in Mullion House? He had scarcely known that he had any
object in working--in giving up. But, if he had, it was surely the thing
itself. He had desired to create a certain thing. Once the thing was
created he had passed on to something else.

Sometimes now he looked back on that life of his, and it seemed very
strange, very far away. A sort of halo of faint and caressing light
surrounded it; but it seemed a thing rather vague, almost a thing of
dreams. The life he was entering now was not vague, nor dreamlike, but
solid, firmly planted, rooted in intention. He read the label attached
to the case of scores: "Claude Heath, passenger to Algiers, via
Marseilles." And he could scarcely believe he was really going.

As he looked up from the label he saw the post lying on the hall-table.
Two letters for him, and--ah, some more cuttings from Romeike and
Curtice. He was quite accustomed to getting those now. "That dreadful
Miss Gretch" had infected others with her disease of comment, and his
name was fairly often in the papers.

"Mr. and Mrs. Claude Heath are about to leave their charming and
artistic house in Kensington and to take up their residence near
Algiers. It is rumored that there is an interesting reason, not wholly
unconnected with things operatic, for their departure, etc."

Charmian had been at work even in these last busy days. Her energy was
wonderful. Claude considered it for a moment as he stood in the hall.
Energy and will, she had both, and she had made him feel them. She had
become quite a personage. She was certainly a very devoted wife, devoted
to what she called, and what no doubt everyone else would call, his
"interests." And yet--and yet--

Claude knew that he did not love her. He admired her. He had become
accustomed to her. He felt her force. He knew he ought to be very
grateful to her for many things. She was devoted