ashington. Then it was easy enough to see
Claude quietly, in her apartment at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel and
elsewhere. Mrs. Shiffney was a past mistress of what she called "playing
about." Claude recognized this, and had a glimpse into a life strangely
different from his own, an almost intimate glimpse which both interested
and disgusted him.

In his determination to grasp at the blatant thing, the big success, a
determination that pushed him almost inevitably into a certain
extravagance of conduct, because it was foreign to his innermost nature,
Claude gave himself to the vulgar vanity of the male. He was out here to
conquer. Why not conquer Mrs. Shiffney? To do that would be scarcely
more spurious than to win with a "made over" opera.

He kept secret assignations, which were not openly supposed to be secret
by either Mrs. Shiffney or himself. For Mrs. Shiffney was leading him
gently, savoring nuances, while he was feeling blatant, though saved by
his breeding from showing it. They had some charming, some almost
exciting talks, full of innuendo, of veiled allusions to personal
feeling and the human depths. And all this was mingled with art and the
great life of human ambition. Mrs. Shiffney's attraction to artists was
a genuine thing in her. She really felt the pull of that which was
secretly powerful in Claude. And she, not too consciously, made him know
this. The knowledge drew him toward her.

One day Claude went to see her after a long rehearsal. When he reached
the hotel it was nearly eight o'clock. The rehearsal of his opera had
only been stopped because it had been necessary to get ready for the
evening performance. Claude had promised to dine with Van Brinen that
night, and Charmian was dining with some friends. But, at the last
moment, Van Brinen had telephoned to say that he was obliged to go to a
concert on behalf of his paper. Claude had left the opera house, weary,
excited, doubtful what to do. If he returned to the St. Regis he would
be all alone. At that moment he dreaded solitude. After hesitating for a
moment outside the stage door, he called a taxi-cab, and ordered the man
to drive to the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.

Mrs. Shiffney would probably be out, would almost certainly have some
engagement for the evening. The hour was unorthodox for a visit. Claude
did not care. He had been drowned in his own music for hours. He was in
a strongly emotional condition, and wanted to do something strange,
something biza