, ungratified.

"He's spoilt by the French blood his mother gave him," said Mrs.
Mansfield as the door closed. "If he had been all French, one might have
delighted in him, taken him on the intellectual side, known where one
was, skipped the coldness and the irony, clung to the wit, vivacity and
easy charm. But he's a modern Frenchman, boxing with an Englishman and
using his feet half the time. And that's dreadful. In an English
drawing-room I don't like the Savate. Now tell us, tell us! I am so
thankful he is not a celebrity."

"Nor ever likely to be unless he marries the wrong woman."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Charmian with curiosity.

"A woman who is ambitious for him and pushes him."

"But if this Claude Heath has so much talent, surely it would be a fine
thing to make him give it to the world."

"That depends on his temperament, I daresay," said Mrs. Mansfield. "I
believe there are people who ought to hide their talents in a napkin."

"Oh, mother! Explain!"

"Some plants can only grow in darkness."

"Very nasty ones, I should think! Deadly nightshade! That sort of
thing!"

"Poor dear! I gave her light in a vulgar age. She can't help it," said
Mrs. Mansfield to Max Elliot. "We are her refined seniors. But sheer
weight of years has little influence. Never mind. Go on. You and I at
least can understand."

As she spoke she laid her hand, on which shone several curious rings,
over Charmian's, and she kept it there while Max Elliot gave some
account of Claude Heath.

"He's not particularly handsome in features. He's quite conventional in
dress. His instinct would probably be to use the shell as a close
hiding-place for anything strange, unusual that it contains. He crops
his hair, and, I should think, wets it two or three times a day for fear
people should see that it has a natural wave in it. His neckties are the
most humdrum that can be discovered in the shops."

"Does he dislike his appearance?" asked Charmian.

"I daresay. The worst of it is that he has eyes that give the whole
thing away to a Mrs. Mansfield."

"What, and not to me?" said Charmian, in an injured note.

"She's fairly sharp, poor dear!" observed Mrs. Mansfield, in a rescuing
voice. "You mustn't be too hard on her."

Max Elliot smiled.

"And a Charmian Mansfield."

"What color are his eyes?" inquired Charmian.

"I really can't tell you for certain, but I should think dark gray."

"And where does he live?"

"In a litt