first he was very polite and formal, a mere bundle of
good manners. But under Charmian's carefully calculated influence, he
changed. He perhaps guessed what her object was, guessed that success
for him might be involved in it. And, suddenly abandoning his formality,
he exclaimed:

"_Eh bien_, madame! And of what nature is your husband?"

Charmian looked at him and hesitated.

"Is he bold, strong, fierce, open-hearted? Has he lived, loved, and
suffered? Or is he gentle, closed, retiring, subtle, morbid perhaps?
Does he live in the dreams of his soul, in the twilight of his beautiful
imaginings?"

Lifting his rather coarse and powerful hands to his moustache, he pulled
at the upward-pointing ends.

"I wish to know this," he exclaimed. "Because it is important for me. My
libretto was written by one who has lived, and the man who sets it to
music must have lived also to do it justice."

There was a fierceness, characteristic of Algerians of a certain class,
in his manner now that he had got rid of his first formality.

Charmian felt slightly embarrassed. At that moment she hoped strongly
that her husband would not come down. For the first time she realized
the gulf fixed between Claude and the libretto which she had found for
him. But he must bridge that gulf out here. She looked hard at this
short, brusque, and rather violent young man. Armand Gillier must help
Claude to bridge that gulf.

"Take another cigarette. I'll tell you about my husband," she said.

CHAPTER XX

Mrs. Shiffney, who was perpetually changing her mind in the chase after
happiness, changed it about India. After all the preparations had been
made, innumerable gowns and hats had been bought, a nice party had been
arranged, and the yacht had been "sent round" to Naples, she decided
that she did not want to go, had never wanted to go. Whether the
defection of a certain Spanish ex-diplomat, who was to have been among
the guests, had anything to do with her sudden dislike of "that boresome
India," perhaps only she knew, and the ex-diplomat guessed. The whole
thing was abruptly given up, and January found her in Grosvenor Square,
much disgusted with her persecution by Fate, and wondering what on earth
was to become of her.

In such crises she generally sent for Susan Fleet, if the theosophist
were within reach. She now decided to telegraph to Folkestone, where
Susan was staying in lodgings not far from the house of dear old Mrs.
Simpkins.