e
had whispered, "Be patient!" She realized the importance of the first
step taken in public. Jacques Sennier had been utterly unknown in
England. He appeared as the composer of the _Paradis Terrestre_. If he
had been known already as the composer of a number of things which had
left the public indifferent, would he have made the enormous success he
had made? She remembered Mascagni and his _Cavalleria_, Leoncavallo and
his _Pagliacci_. And she was almost glad that Claude was unknown. At any
rate, he had never made a mistake. That was something to be thankful
for. He must never make a mistake. But there would be no harm in
arousing a certain interest in his personality, in his work. A man like
Jacob Crayford kept a sharp look-out for fresh talent. He read all that
appeared about new composers of course. Or someone read for him. Even
"that dreadful Miss Gretch's" lucubrations might come under his notice.

For a week now Claude had gone every day after breakfast to the studio.
Charmian had not yet disturbed him there. She felt that she must handle
her husband gently. Although he was so kind, so disposed to be
sympathetic, to meet people half way, she knew well that there was
something in him to which as yet she had never probed, which she did not
understand. She was sufficiently intelligent not to deceive herself
about this, not to think that because Claude was a man of course she, a
woman, could see all of him clearly. The hidden something in her husband
might be a thing resistent. She believed she must go to work gently,
subtly, even though she meant to be very firm. So she had let Claude
have a week to himself. This gave him time to feel that the studio was a
sanctum, perhaps also that it was a rather lonely one. Meanwhile, she
had been searching for "words."

That task was a difficult one, because her mind was obsessed by the
thought of opera. Oratorio had always been a hateful form of art to her.
She had grown up thinking it old-fashioned, out-moded, absurdly
"plum-puddingy," and British. In the realm of orchestral music she was
more at home. She honestly loved orchestral music divorced from words.
But the music of Claude's which she knew was joined with words. And he
must do something with words. For that, as it were, would lead the way
toward opera. Orchestral music was more remote from opera. If Claude set
some wonderful poem, and a man like Jacob Crayford heard the setting, he
might see a talent for opera in it.