"

"Yes. I've done enough for to-day."

After tea Charmian said:

"I'll study _The Hound of Heaven_ again. But now do you mind if I read
you two or three of the things I have here?"

"No," he said kindly, but not at all eagerly. "Do read anything you
like."

It was six o'clock when Charmian read Watson's poem "to finish up with."
Claude who, absorbed secretly by the thought of his new composition, had
listened so far without any keen interest, at moments had not listened
at all, though preserving a decent attitude and manner of attention,
suddenly woke up into genuine enthusiasm.

"Give me that, Charmian!" he exclaimed. "I scarcely ever write a song.
But I'll set that."

She gave him the book eagerly.

That evening they were at home. After dinner Claude went to his little
room to write some letters, and Charmian read _The Hound of Heaven_. She
decided against it. Beautiful though it was, she considered it too
mystic, too religious. She was sure many people could not understand it.

"I wish Madre hadn't talked to Claude about it," she thought. "He thinks
so much of her opinion. And she doesn't care in the least whether Claude
makes a hit with the public or not."

The mere thought of the word "hit" in connection with Mrs. Mansfield
almost made Charmian smile.

"I suppose there's something dreadfully vulgar about me," she said to
herself. "But I belong to the young generation. I can't help loving
success."

Mrs. Mansfield had been the friend, was the friend, of many successful
men. They came to her for sympathy, advice. She followed their upward
careers with interest, rejoiced in their triumphs. But she cared for the
talent in a man rather than for what it brought him. Charmian knew that.
And long ago Mrs. Mansfield had spoken of the plant that must grow in
darkness. At this time Charmian began almost to dread her mother's
influence upon her husband.

She was cheered by a little success.

Claude set Watson's poem rapidly. He played the song to Charmian, and
she was delighted with it.

"I know people would love that!" she cried.

"If it was properly sung by someone with temperament," he replied. "And
now I can go on with _The Hound of Heaven_."

Her heart sank.

"I'm only a little afraid they may think you are imitating Elgar," she
murmured after a moment.

"Imitating Elgar!"

"Not that you are, or ever would do such a thing. It isn't your music,
it's the subject, that makes me a little afraid. I