it together seriously. During these rehearsals Charmian sat in
an armchair a little way from the piano listening, and feeling the
intensity of an almost feverish anticipation within her.

This was the first step on the way of ambition. And she had caused
Claude to take it. Never would he have taken it without her. As she
listened to the two men talking, discussing together, trying passages
again and again, forgetful for the moment of her, she thrilled with a
sense of achieved triumph. Glory seemed already within her grasp. She
ran forward in hope, like a child almost. She saw the goal like a thing
quite near, almost close to her.

"People will love that song! They will love it!" she said to herself.

And their love, what might it not do for Claude, and to Claude? Surely
it would infect him with the desire for more of that curious heat-giving
love of the world for a great talent. Surely it would carry him on, away
from the old reserves, from the secrecies which had held him too long,
from the darkness in which he had labored. For whom? For himself
perhaps, or no one. Surely it would carry him on along the great way to
the light that illumined the goal.

CHAPTER XVIII

At the end of November in that same year the house in Kensington Square
was let, the studio in Renwick Place was shut up, and Claude and
Charmian were staying in Berkeley Square with Mrs. Mansfield for a
couple of nights before their departure for Algiers, where they intended
to stay for an indefinite time. They had decided first to go to the
Hotel St. George at Mustapha Superieur, and from there to prosecute
their search for a small and quiet villa in which Claude could settle
down to work. Most of their luggage was already packed. A case of music,
containing a large number of full scores, stood in Mrs. Mansfield's
hall. And Charmian was out at the dressmaker's with Susan Fleet, trying
on the new gowns she was taking with her to a warmer climate than
England's.

This vital change in two lives had come about through a song.

The young American singer, Alston Lake, had been true to his word.
During the past London season he had sung Claude's _Wild Heart of Youth_
everywhere. And people, the right people, had liked it. Swiftly composed
in an hour of enthusiasm it was really a beautiful and original song. It
was a small thing, but it was a good thing. And it was presented to the
public by a new and enthusiastic man who at once made his mark bot