but for one
near her. Really she was violently willing that it should be so. But she
thought she was receiving--from whom, or from what, she could not
tell--a mysterious message.

And the red-haired woman's place was filled by another.

At last the curtain fell on the final scene, and the storm which meant a
triumph was unchained. Heath sprang up from his seat, carried away by a
generous enthusiasm. He did not know how to be jealous of anyone who
could do a really fine thing. Charmian, in the midst of the uproar,
heard him shouting "Bravo!" behind her, in a voice quick with
excitement. His talent was surely calling to a brother. The noise all
over the house strengthened gradually, then abruptly rose like a great
wave. A small, thin, and pale man, with a big nose, a mighty forehead,
scanty black hair and beard, and blinking eyes, had stepped out before
the curtain. He leaned forward, made a movement as if to retreat, was
stopped by a louder roar, stepped quickly to the middle of the small
strip of stage that was visible, and stood still with his big head
slightly thrust out toward the multitude which acclaimed him.

Charmian turned round to Claude Heath, who towered above her. He did not
notice her movement. He was gazing at the stage while he violently
clapped his hands. She gazed up at him. He felt her eyes, leaned down.
For a moment they looked at each other, while the noise in the house
increased. Claude saw that Charmian wanted to speak to him--and
something else. After a moment, during which the blood rose in his
cheeks and forehead, and he felt as if he were out in wind and rain, in
falling snow and stern sunshine, he said:

"What is it?"

"All this ought to be for you. Some day it will be--for you!"

CHAPTER XIII

In the studio of Mullion House that night, Harriet, moving softly,
placed a plate of sandwiches and a long bottle of Rhine wine before she
went up to bed. Moonlight shone on the scrap of garden, gleamed on the
leaded panes of the studio windows, from which the orange-colored
curtains were drawn back. The aspect of the big room had changed because
it was summer. It looked bigger, less cosy without a fire. One lamp was
lighted and cast a gentle glow over the books that lay near it, and over
the writing-table on which there were sheets of manuscript music. The
piano stood open. A spray of white roses in a tall vase looked spectral
against the shadows. After Harriet's departure the clock tic