ill compose it! Why, what do you imagine? I've already
begun. It composes itself. I'm now going to read it all again in the
garden. Just see that I'm not worried, will you?'

'You mean you don't want me there. You don't care for me any more.'

It amused me to pretend to pout.

'Yes,' he laughed; 'that's it. I don't care for you any more.'

He departed.

'Have no fear!' I cried after him. 'I shan't come into your horrid
garden!'

His habit was to resume his practice at three o'clock. The hour was then
half-past one. I wondered whether he would allow himself to be seduced
from the piano that afternoon by the desire to compose. I hoped not, for
there could be no question as to the relative importance to him of the
two activities. To my surprise, I heard the piano at two o'clock,
instead of at three, and it continued without intermission till five.
Then he came, like a sudden wind, on to the terrace where I was having
tea. Diaz would never take afternoon tea. He seized my hand impulsively.

'Come down,' he said--'down under the trees there.'

'What for?'

'I want you.'

'But, Diaz, let me put my cup down. I shall spill the tea on my dress.'

'I'll take your cup.'

'And I haven't nearly finished my tea, either. And you're hurting me.'

'I'll bring you a fresh cup,' he said. 'Come, come!'

And he dragged me off, laughing, to the lower part of the garden, where
were two chairs in the shade. And I allowed myself to be dragged.

'There! Sit down. Don't move. I'll fetch your tea.'

And presently he returned with the cup.

'Now that you've nearly killed me,' I said, 'and spoilt my dress, perhaps
you'll explain.'

He produced the silk-bound book of manuscript from his pocket and put it
in my unoccupied hand.

'I want you to read it to me aloud, all of it,' he said.

'Really?'

'Really.'

'What a strange boy you are!' I chided.

Then I drank the tea, straightened my features into seriousness, and
began to read.

The reading occupied less than an hour. He made no remark when it was
done, but held out his hand for the book, and went out for a walk. At
dinner he was silent till the servants had gone. Then he said musingly:

'That scene in the cloisters between Louise and De Montespan is a great
idea. It will be magnificent; it will be the finest thing in the opera.
What a subject you have found! what a subject!' His tone altered. 'Magda,
will you do something to oblige me?'

'If it isn't foolish.'

'