ding for
women rather than a woman.

During that moment Mrs. Shiffney watched him, and London desires
connected with him returned to her, were very strong within her. She had
come to him as a spy from an enemy's camp. She had fulfilled her
mission. Any further action must be taken by Henriette--was, perhaps, at
this very moment being taken by her. But if this man had been different
she might well have been on his side. Even now--

Claude felt her eyes upon him and looked at her. And now she
deliberately allowed him to see her thought, her desire. What did it
matter if he was married? What on earth had such a commonplace matter as
marriage got to do with it?

Her look, not to be misunderstood, brought Claude at once back to that
firm ground on which he walked with Charmian and his own instinctive
loyalty; an austere rubbish in Mrs. Shiffney's consideration of it.

He unclasped his hands from his knees. At that moment he saw the
minotaur thing, with its teeth and claws, heard the shuddering voice of
it. He wanted to look away at once from Mrs. Shiffney, but he could not.
All that he could do was to try not to show by his eyes that he
understood her desire and was recoiling from it.

Of course, he failed, as any other man must have failed. She followed
every step of his retreat, and sarcasm flickered into her face,
transforming it.

"Don't you think I understand you?" she said lightly. "Don't you think
you ought to have lived on in Mullion House?"

As she spoke she got up and gently brushed some twigs from her
tailor-made skirt.

Claude sprang up, hoping to be helped by movement.

"Oh, no, I had had quite enough of it!" he replied, forcing himself to
seem careless, yet conscious that little of what he was feeling was
unknown by her at this moment.

"And your opera could never have been brought to the birth there."

She had turned, and they walked slowly back among the fir-trees toward
the bridge.

"You knew that, perhaps, and were wise in your generation."

Claude said nothing, and she continued:

"I always think one of the signs of greatness in an artist is his
knowledge of what environment, what way of life, is necessary to his
talent. No one can know that for him. Every really great artist is as
inflexible as the Grand Rocher."

She pointed with her right hand toward the precipice.

"That is why women always love and hate him."

Her eyes and her voice lightly mocked him. She turned her head and
lo