she had wondered before dinner.

Presently Gillier found himself alone with Charmian. Susan Fleet and
Claude were pacing up and down in the garden among the geraniums.
Charmian and Gillier sat at the edge of the court. Gillier sipped his
Turkish coffee, poured out a glass of old brandy, clipped a big Havana
cigar, which he took from an open box on a little low table beside him.
His large eyes rested on Charmian, and she thought how disagreeably
expressive they were. She did not like this man, though she admired his
remarkable talent. But she had had a purpose in persuading him to stay
that evening, and she was resolved to carry it out.

"Has it gone off well?" she asked, with a careful lightness, a careful
carelessness which she hoped was deceiving. "Were you able to put my
husband in the way of seeing and hearing everything that could help him
with his music?"

"Oh, yes, madame! He saw, heard everything."

Gillier blew forth a cloud of smoke, turned a little in his chair and
looked at his cigar. He seemed to be considering something.

"Then the expedition was a success?" said Charmian.

Gillier glanced at her and took another sip of brandy.

"Who knows, madame?"

"Who knows? Why, how do you mean?"

"Madame, since I have been away with your husband I confess I begin to
have certain doubts."

"Doubts!" said Charmian, in a changed and almost challenging voice. "I
don't quite understand."

"That your husband is a clever man, I realize. He has evidently much
knowledge of the technique of music, much imagination. He is an
original, though he seldom shows it, and wishes to conceal it."

"Then--"

"A moment, madame! You will say, 'That is good for the opera!'"

"Naturally!"

"That depends. I do not know whether his sort of originality is what the
public will appreciate. But I do know very well that your husband and I
will never get on together."

"Why not?"

"He is not my sort. I don't understand him. And I confess that I feel
anxious."

"Anxious? What about, monsieur?"

"Madame, I have written a great libretto. I want a great opera made of
it. It is my nature to speak frankly; perhaps you may call it brutally,
but I am not _homme du monde_. I am not a little man of the salons. I am
not accustomed to live in kid gloves. I have sweated. I have seen life.
I have been, and I still am, poor--poor, madame! But, madame, I do not
intend to remain sunk to my neck in poverty for ever. No!"

"Of course not--w