is who lived there, an old
Cornish chum called Tregorwan.

"Where is Mr. Heath?" continued Charmian, standing in the little hall.

"Having his tea in the drawing-room, ma'am."

"Oh!"

She took off her fur coat and went quickly upstairs. She did not care
about golf, and to-day the mere sound of the name irritated her.
Englishmen were always playing golf, she said to herself. Jacques
Sennier did not waste his time on such things, she was sure. Then she
remembered for how many hours every day Claude was shut up in his little
room, how he always went there immediately after breakfast. And she
realized the injustice of her dawning anger, and also her nervous state,
and resolved to be very gentle and calm with Claude.

It was a cold day at the end of March. She found him sitting near the
wood fire in knickerbockers and a Norfolk jacket, with thick, heavily
nailed boots, covered with dried mud, on his feet, and thick brown and
red stockings on his legs. It was almost impossible to believe he was a
musician. His hair had been freshly cut, but he had not "watered" it.
Since his marriage Charmian had never allowed him to do that. He jumped
up when he saw his wife. Intimacy never made Claude relax in courtesy.

"I'm having tea very late," he said. "But I've only just got in."

"I know. Sit down and go on, dear old boy. I'll come and sit with you.
Don't you want more light?"

"I like the firelight."

He sat down again and lifted the teapot.

"I shall spoil my dinner. But never mind."

"You remember we're dining with Madre!"

"Oh--to be sure!"

"But not till half-past eight."

She sat down with her back to the drawn window curtains at right angles
to Claude. Alice had "shut up" early to make the drawing-room look cozy
for Claude. The firelight played about the room, illuminating now one
thing, now another, making Claude's face and head, sometimes his musical
hands look Rembrandtesque, powerful, imaginative, even mysterious. Now
that Charmian had sat down she lost her impression of the eternal
golfer, received another impression which spurred her imagination.

"I've been at the Drakes," she began. "Only a very few to welcome Margot
back from New York."

"Did she enjoy her visit?"

"Immensely. She's--as she calls it--tickled to death with the Americans
in their own country. She meant to stay only one night, but she was
there three weeks. It seems all New York has gone mad over Jacques
Sennier."

"I'm glad they