e your own room you are absolutely safe,
that it is sacred ground."

"Thank you, Charmian."

He pushed his cup farther away, with a movement that was rather brusque,
and got up.

"What about lunch to-day? Do you eat lunch when you are composing? Do
you want something sent up to you?"

"Well, I don't know. I don't think I shall want any lunch to-day. You
see we've breakfasted late. Don't bother about me."

"It isn't a bother. You know that, Claudie. But would you like a cup of
coffee, tea, anything at one o'clock?"

"Oh, I scarcely know. I'll ring if I do."

He made a movement. Charmian got up.

"I do long to know what you are going to work on," she said, in a
changed, almost mysterious, voice, which was not consciously assumed.

She came up to him and put her hands on his shoulders.

"Ever since I first heard your music--you remember, two days after we
were engaged--I've longed to be able to do a little something to help
you on. You know what I mean. In the woman's way, by acting as a sort of
buffer between you and all the small irritations of life. We who can't
create can sometimes be of use to those who can. We can keep others from
disturbing the mystery. Let me do that. And, in return, let me be in the
secret, won't you?"

Claude stood rather stiffly under her hands.

"You are kind, good. But--but don't make any bother about me in the
house. I'd rather you didn't. Let everything just go on naturally. I
don't want to be a nuisance."

"You couldn't be. And you will let me?"

"Perhaps--when I know it myself."

He made a little rather constrained laugh.

"One's got to think, try. One doesn't always know directly what one
wishes to do, can do."

"No, of course not."

She took away her hands gently.

"Now I don't exist till you want me to again."

Claude went up to the little room at the back of the house. At this
moment he would gladly, thankfully, have gone anywhere else. But he felt
that he was expected to go there. Five women, his wife and the four
maids, expected him to go there. So he went. He shut himself in, and
remained there, caged.

It was a still and foggy day of frost. In the air, even within the
house, there was a feeling of snow, light, thin, and penetrating. London
seemed peculiarly silent. And the silence seemed to have something to do
with the fog, the frost, and the coming snow. When the door of his room
was shut Claude stood by his table, then before the fire, feeling
curiou