n and with enthusiasm.

"Of course he's a little monkey," she concluded, evidently alluding to
some artist. "But _what_ a little monkey! I was in the front row, and he
called my attention to everything he was going to do, sometimes in
Russian, sometimes in dreadful French, or in English that was really a
criminal offense, and very often with his right elbow. He has a way of
nudging the air in one's direction so that one feels it in one's side.
Animal magnetism, I suppose. And he begs for sympathy as if it were a
biscuit. Do you know him, Mr. Heath?"

"No, not at all. I know very few big artists."

"But all the young coming ones, I suppose? Did you study abroad?"

"I went to the Royal College at Kensington Gore."

Mrs. Shiffney, who was very cosmopolitan, had a flat in Paris, and was
more often out of England than in it, slightly raised her eyebrows.

"You haven't studied in France or Germany?"

Heath began to look rather uncomfortable, and slightly self-conscious.

"No," he said quickly.

He paused, then as if with a decided effort he added:

"I think the training a student gets at the Royal College is splendid."

"Of course it is," said Max Elliot, heartily.

Mrs. Shiffney shook her shoulders.

"I'm sure it's quite perfect," she said, in her rather deep voice,
gazing at the young composer with eyes in which a light satire twinkled.
"Don't think I'm criticizing it. Only I'm so dreadfully un-English, and
I think English musicians get rather into a groove. The Hallelujah
bow-wow, you know!"

At this point in the conversation Charmian tranquilly interposed.

"Mr. Heath," she said, slightly protruding her chin, "when you've done
with my only mother"--Mrs. Shiffney's lips tightened ever so little--"I
want you to be very nice to me."

"Please tell me," said Heath, with the almost anxious eagerness that
seemed to be characteristic of him.

Mrs. Mansfield fixed her blazing eyes on her daughter, slightly drawing
down her gray eyebrows.

"Well, it's rather a secret."

Charmian glanced round at the others, then she added:

"It's about the Nutcracker."

"The Nutcracker!"

Heath puckered up his forehead.

"Yes." She moved a little, and looked at the chair not far from the fire
on which she had sat when first she came into the room. "I care rather
for boxing. Now"--she went slowly toward the chair, followed by Heath,
"what I want to know, and what you can tell me, is this"--she sat down,
and leaned her ch