t?"

"He said, 'It's the best libretto since _Carmen_.'"

"It is a good libretto."

"He was enthusiastic. Claude"--she put her hand on his arm--"he wants to
hear your music."

"Has he said so?"

"Not exactly; not in so many words; but he seemed very much put out when
he found you weren't here. And, after he had heard the libretto, he
suggested my telegraphing to you to come straight back."

"Funny I should have come without your telegraphing."

"It almost seems--" She paused.

"What?"

"As if you had been led to come back of your own accord, as if you had
felt you ought to be here."

"Are you glad?" he said.

"Yes, now."

"Did you mean--"

"Claude," she said, taking a resolution, "I don't think it would be wise
for us to seem too eager about the opera with Mr. Crayford."

"But I have never even thought--"

"No, no. But now he's here, and thinks so much of the libretto, and
wants to see you, it would be absurd of us to pretend that he could not
be of great use to us. I mean, to pretend to ourselves. Of course if he
would take it it would be too splendid."

"He never will."

"Why not? Covent Garden took Sennier's opera."

"I'm not a Sennier unfortunately."

"What a pity it is you have not more belief in yourself!" she exclaimed,
almost angrily.

She felt at that moment as if his lack of self-confidence might ruin
their prospects.

"O Claude," she continued in the same almost angry voice, "do pluck up a
little belief in your own talent, otherwise how can--"

She pulled herself up sharply.

"I can't help being angry," she continued. "I believe in you so much,
and then you speak like this."

Suddenly she burst into tears. Her depression culminated in this
breakdown, which surprised her as much as it astonished Claude.

"My nerves have been on edge all day," she said, or, rather, sobbed. "I
don't know why."

But even as she spoke she did know why. The strain of secret ambition
was beginning to tell upon her. She was perpetually hiding something,
was perpetually waiting, desiring, thinking, "How much longer?" And she
had not Susan Fleet's wonderful serenity. And then she could not forget
Claude's remark, "I can't keep away from the opera." It ought to have
pleased her, perhaps, but it had wounded her.

"I'm a fool!" she said, wiping her eyes. "I'm strung up; not myself."

Claude put his arm round her gently.

"I understand that my attitude about my work must often be very
aggravating,"