naturally grave, and gazed
with a sort of piercing attention at Charmian's hair, jewels, gown, fan,
and shoes.

"She seems to be memorizing me," thought Charmian, wondering who Miss
Gretch was, and how she came to be there.

"Stay here just a minute, will you?" said Susan Fleet. "Adelaide wants
me, I see. I'll be back directly."

"Please be sure to come. I want to talk to you," said Charmian.

As Susan Fleet was going she murmured:

"Miss Gretch writes for papers."

Charmian turned to the angular guest with a certain alacrity. They
talked together with animation till Susan Fleet came back.

A week later, on coming down to breakfast before starting for the
studio, Claude found among his letters a thin missive, open at the ends,
and surrounded with yellow paper. He tore the paper, and three newspaper
cuttings dropped on to his plate.

"What's this?" he said to Charmian, who was sitting opposite to him.
"Romeike and Curtice! Why should they send me anything?"

He picked up one of the cuttings.

"It's from a paper called _My Lady_."

"What is it about?"

"It seems to be an account of Mrs. Shiffney's party, with something
marked in blue pencil, 'Mrs. Claude Heath came in late with her
brilliant husband, whose remarkable musical compositions have not yet
attained to the celebrity which will undoubtedly be theirs within no
long time. The few who have heard Mr. Heath's music place him with
Elgar, Max Reger, and Delius.' Then a description of what you were
wearing. How very ridiculous and objectionable!"

Claude looked furious and almost ashamed.

"Here's something else! 'A Composer's Studio,' from _The World and His
Wife_. It really is insufferable."

"Why? What can it say?"

"'Mr. Claude Heath, the rising young composer, who recently married the
beautiful Miss Charmian Mansfield, of Berkeley Square, has just rented
and furnished elaborately a magnificent studio in Renwick Place,
Chelsea. Exquisite Persian rugs strew the floor----'"

Claude stopped, and with an abrupt movement tore the cuttings to pieces
and threw them on the carpet.

"What can it mean? Who on earth----? Charmian, do you know anything of
this?"

"Oh," she said, with a sort of earnest disgust, mingled with surprise,
"it must be that dreadful Miss Gretch!"

"Dreadful Miss Gretch! I never heard of her. Who is she?"

"At Adelaide Shiffney's the other night Susan Fleet introduced me to a
Miss Gretch. I believe she sometimes writes, for pa