s of
the caretaker went up when he saw her.

"My, ma'am, what a heavy lot for you to be carrying!"

"I'm strong. Mr. Heath's in the studio?"

Before the man could reply she heard the sound of a piano.

"Oh, yes, he is. Is there water there? Yes. That's right. I'm going to
boil the kettle and make tea."

She went on quickly, opened the door softly, and slipped in.

Claude, who sat with his back to her playing, did not hear her. She
crept behind the screen into what she called "the kitchen." What fun!
She could make the tea without his knowing that she was there, and bring
it in to him when he stopped playing.

As she softly prepared things she listened attentively, with a sort of
burning attention, to the music. She had not heard it before. She knew
that when her husband was composing he did not go to the piano. This
must be something which he had just composed and was trying over. It
sounded to her mystic, remote, very strange, almost like a soul
communing with itself; then more violent, more sonorous, but always very
strange.

The kettle began to boil. She got ready the cups. In turning she knocked
two spoons down from a shelf. They fell on the uncarpeted floor.

"What's that? Who's there?"

Claude had stopped playing abruptly. His voice was the voice of a man
startled and angry.

"Who's there?" he repeated loudly.

She heard him get up and come toward the screen.

"Claudie, do forgive me! I slipped in. I thought I would make tea for
you. It's all ready. But I didn't mean to interrupt you. I was waiting
till you had finished. I'm so sorry."

"You, Charmian!"

There was an odd remote expression in his eyes, and his whole face
looked excited.

"Do--do forgive me, Claudie! Those dreadful spoons!"

She picked them up.

"Of course. What are all these books doing here?"

"I brought them. I thought after tea we might talk over words. You
remember?"

"Oh, yes. Well--but I've begun on something."

"Were you playing it just now?"

"Some of it."

"What is it?"

"Francis Thompson's _The Hound of Heaven_."

Jacob Crayford--what would he think of that sort of thing?

"You know it, don't you?" Claude said, as she was silent.

"I've read it, but quite a while ago. I don't remember it well. Of
course I know it's very wonderful. Madre loves it."

"She was speaking of it at the Shiffney's the other night. That's why it
occurred to me to study it."

"Oh. Well, now you have stopped shall we have tea?