over it--so long as it was
a success? The blatant thing--everyone, every circumstance, was urging
Claude to snatch at it; and in this early hour of the winter morning,
excited by the intensity of the strain he was undergoing, by the pull on
his body, but far more by the pull on his soul, he came to a sudden and
crude decision; at all costs the blatant thing should be his, the
popular triumph, the success, if not of the high-bred merit, then of
sheer spectacular sensation. There is an intimate success that seems to
be of the soul, and there is another, reverberating, resounding, like
the clashing of brass instruments beaten together. Claude seemed to hear
them at this moment as he talked with ever-growing excitement.

One of the pressmen had mentioned Gillier, who had arrived and been
interviewed at the docks. He had evidently been delighted to find his
work a "storm center," but had declined to commit himself to any direct
statement of fact. The impression left on the pressmen by him, however,
had been that a fight had raged for the possession of his libretto,
which must have been won by the Heaths since Claude Heath had set it to
music. Or had the fight really been between Joseph Crayford and the
management of the Metropolitan Opera House? Gillier had finally
remarked, "I must leave it to you, messieurs. All that matters to me is
that my poor work should be helped to success by music and scenery,
acting and singing. I am not responsible for what Madame Sennier, or
anyone else, says to you."

"Then what do they really believe?" exclaimed Charmian, raising herself
up on the cushions, and resting one flushed cheek on her hand.

"The worst, no doubt!" said Alston.

"What does it matter?" said Claude.

Quickly he took out of a box, clipped, lit, and began to smoke a fresh
cigar.

"What does anything matter so long as we have a success, a big,
resounding success?"

Charmian and Alston exchanged glances, half astonished, half
congratulatory.

"I never realized till I came here," Claude continued, "the necessity of
success to one who wants to continue doing good work. It is like the
breaths of air drawn into his lungs by the swimmer in a race, who, to
get pace, keeps his head low, his mouth under water half the time. I've
simply got to win this race. And if anything helps, even lies from
Madame Sennier, and the sly deceit of Gillier, I mean to welcome it.
That's the only thing to do. Crayford is right. I didn't see i