pera, that she thought it a work of genius,
that everyone would recognize it as such soon, very soon, if not now,
immediately. Words seemed to be struggling up in her, but she could not
speak them. She felt that she was growing paler and paler beneath his
gaze.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed, with violence. "You've got some sincerity
left in you. We want it, you and I, to-night!"

He turned away from her, went to the sofa, sat down on it, put his hand
to the breast-pocket of his coat, and drew out two papers--Madre's
cablegram and the letter which had come while they were at supper.

"Come here, Charmian!" he said, more quietly.

She came to him, hesitated, met his eyes again, and sat down in the
other corner of the sofa beside him.

"I want you to read that."

He gave her the letter.

"Read it carefully. Don't hurry!" he said.

She took the letter and read.

"MY DEAR MR. HEATH,--I've left the opera-house and have
come to the office of my paper to write my article on your work
which I have just heard. But before I do so I feel moved to send
this letter to you. I don't know what you will think of it, or of
me for writing it, but I do care. I want you very much not to hate
it, not to think ill of me. People, I believe, very often speak and
think badly of us who call ourselves, are called, critics. They say
we are venial, that we are log-rollers, that we have no
convictions, that we don't know what we are talking about, that we
are the failures in art, all that kind of thing. We have plenty of
faults, no doubt. But there are some of us who try to be honest. I
try to be honest. I am going to try to be honest about your work
to-night. That is why I am sending you this.

"Your opera is not a success. I know New York. I dare even to say
that I know America. I have sat among American audiences too long
not to be able to 'taste' them. Their feeling gets right into me.
Your opera is not a success. But it isn't really that which
troubles me to-night. It is this. Your opera doesn't deserve to be
a success.

"That's the wound!

"I don't know, of course--I can't know--whether you are aware of
the wound. But I can't help thinking you must be. It is
presumption, I dare say, for a man like me, a mere critic, who
couldn't compose a bar of fine genuine music to save his life, to
try to dive into the soul