new opera was quite
extraordinary, epoch-making, that it was causing a prodigious impression
at rehearsal, that it was absolutely original, that there was no doubt
of its composer's genius. Then reports as to the composer's personality
and habits began to get about. Mrs. Shiffney, of course, knew him. But
she had introduced him to nobody. He was her personal prey at present.
She, however, allowed it to be known that he was quite charming, but the
strangest creature imaginable. It seemed that he had absolutely no moral
sense, did not know what it meant. If he saw an insect trodden upon, or
a fly killed on a window-pane, he could not work for days. But when his
first wife--he had been married at sixteen--shot herself in front of
him, on account of his persistent cruelty and infidelity, he showed no
sign of distress, had the body carried out of his studio, and went on
composing. Decidedly an original! Everybody was longing to know him. The
libraries and the box-office of the Opera House were bombarded with
demands for seats for the first performance, at which the beautiful
Annie Meredith, singer, actress, dancer, speculator, and breeder of
prize bulldogs, was to appear in the heroine's part.

Three nights before the premiere, a friend, suddenly plunged into
mourning by the death of a relation, sent Mrs. Mansfield her box.
Charmian was overjoyed. Max Elliot, Lady Mildred Burnington, Margot and
Kit Drake, Paul Lane, all her acquaintances, in fact, were already
"raving" about Jacques Sennier, without knowing him, and about his
opera, without having heard it. Sensation, success, they were in the
air. Not to go to this premiere would be a disaster. Charmian's
instinctive love of being "in" everything had caused her to feel acute
vexation when her mother had told her that their application for stalls
had been refused. Now, at the last moment, they had one of the best
boxes in the house.

"Whom shall we take?" said Mrs. Mansfield. "There's room for four."

"Why not invite Mr. Heath?" said Charmian, with a rather elaborate
carelessness. "As he's a musician it might interest him."

"I will if you like. But he's sure to refuse."

Of late Heath had retired into his shell. Mrs. Shiffney had not seen him
for months. Max Elliot had given him up in despair. Even in Berkeley
Square he was but seldom visible. His excuse for not calling was that he
knew nobody had any time to spare in the season.

"Don't write to him, Madre, or he wil