fancying
that either she had some surprise in store for him, or that she meant to
do, or say, something extremely definite, which she had already decided
upon in her mind, to-morrow in the studio.

He felt slightly uneasy.

On the following morning Charmian looked distinctly mysterious, and
rather as if she wished Claude to notice her mystery. He ignored it,
however, though he realized that some plan must be maturing in her head.
His suspicion of the day before was certainly well founded.

"What about this evening, Charmian?" he asked.

"Oh, we are going to _pendre la cremaillere_. You remember we decided
yesterday."

"Before or after dinner? And what about Mrs. Shiffney?"

"Well, I thought we might go to the studio about half-past seven or
eight. Could you meet me there--say at half-past seven?"

"Meet you?"

"Yes; I've got to go out in that direction and could take it on the way
home."

"All right. But dinner? That's just at dinner-time--not that I care."

"We could have something when we get home. I can tell Alice to put
something in the dining-room for us. There's that pie, and we can have a
bottle of champagne to drink success to the studio, if we want it."

"And Mrs. Shiffney's given up?"

"We can see how we feel. She only asked us for eleven. We can easily
dress and go, it we want to."

So it was settled.

As Claude had not yet begun to work he took a long and solitary walk in
the afternoon. He made his way to Battersea Park, and spent nearly two
hours there. That day he felt as if a crisis, perhaps small but very
definite, had arisen in his life. For some five months now he had been
inactive. He had lost the long habit of work. He had allowed his life to
be disorganized. No longer had he a grip on himself and on life. From
to-morrow he must get that grip again. In the isolation of the studio he
would surely be able to get it. Yet he felt very doubtful. He did not
know what he wanted to do. He seemed to have drifted very far away from
the days when his talent, or his genius, spoke with no uncertain voice,
dictated to him what he must do. In those days he was seldom in doubt.
He did not have to search. There was no vagueness in his life. The
Bible, that inexhaustible mine of great literature, prompted him to
music. But, then, he was living in comparative solitude. Quiet days
stretched before him, empty evenings. He could give himself up to what
was within him. Even now he could have quiet days. H