Charmian was overjoyed. Max Elliot, Lady Mildred Burnington, Margot and Kit Drake, Paul Lane, all her acquaintances, in fact, were already "raving" about Jacques Sennier, without knowing him, and about his opera, without having heard it. Sensation, success, they were in the air. Not to go to this premiere would be a disaster. Charmian's instinctive love of being "in" everything had caused her to feel acute vexation when her mother had told her that their application for stalls had been refused. Now, at the last moment, they had one of the best boxes in the house.

"Whom shall we take?" said Mrs. Mansfield. "There's room for four."

"Why not invite Mr. Heath?" said Charmian, with a rather elaborate carelessness. "As he's a musician it might interest him."

"I will if you like. But he's sure to refuse."

Of late Heath had retired into his sh.e.l.l. Mrs. Shiffney had not seen him for months. Max Elliot had given him up in despair. Even in Berkeley Square he was but seldom visible. His excuse for not calling was that he knew n.o.body had any time to spare in the season.

"Don't write to him, Madre, or he will. Get him to come here and ask him. He really ought to follow the progress of his own art, silly fellow. I have no patience with his absurd fogeydom."

She spoke with the lightest scorn, but in her long eyes there was an intentness which contradicted her manner.

Heath came to the house, was invited to come to the box, and had just refused when Charmian entered the room.

"You're afraid, Mr. Heath," she said, smiling at him.

"Afraid! What of?" he asked quickly, and a little defiantly.

"Afraid of hearing what the foreign composers of your own age are doing, of comparing their talents with your own. That's so English! Never mind what the rest of the world is about! We'll go on in our own way! It seems so valiant, doesn't it? And really it's nothing but cowardice, fear of being forced to see that others are advancing while we are standing still. I'm sick of English stolidity!"

Heath's eyes shown with something that looked like anger.

"I really don't think I'm afraid!" he said stiffly.

Perhaps to prove that he was not, he rescinded his refusal and came to the premiere with the Mansfields. It was a triumph for Charmian, but she did not show that she knew it.

Heath was in his most reserved mood. He had the manner of the defiant male lured from behind his defenses into the open against his will. Some intelligence within him knew that his cold stiffness was rather ridiculous, and made him unhappy. Mrs. Mansfield was really sorry for him.

Nothing is more humorously tragic than pleasure indulged in under protest. And Heath's protest was painfully apparent.

Charmian, who was looking her best, her most self-possessed, a radiant minx, with fleeting hints of depths and softnesses, half veiled by the firm habit of the world, seemed to tower morally above the composer. He marvelled afresh at the triumphant composure of modern girlhood. Sitting between the two women in the box--no one else had been asked to join them--he looked out, almost shyly, at the crowded and brilliant house.

Mrs. Shiffney, large, powerful and glittering with jewels, came into a box immediately opposite to theirs, accompanied by Ferdinand Rades, Paul Lane, and a very smart, very French, and very ugly woman, who was covered thickly with white paint, and who looked like all the feminine intelligence of Paris beneath her perfectly-dressed red hair. In the box next the stage on the same side were the Max Elliots with Sir Hilary Burnington and Lady Mildred.

Charmian looked eagerly about the house, putting up her opera-gla.s.ses, finding everywhere friends and acquaintances. She frankly loved the world with the energy of her youth.

At this moment the sight of the huge and crowded theater, full of watchful eyes and whispering lips, full of brains and souls waiting to be fed, the sound of its hum and stir, sent a warm thrill through her, thrill of expectation, of desire. She thought of that man, Jacques Sennier, hidden somewhere, the cause of all that was happening in the house, of all that would happen almost immediately upon the stage. She envied him with intensity. Then she looked at Claude Heath's rather grim and constrained expression. Was it possible that Heath did not share her feeling of envy?

There was a tap at the door. Heath sprang up and opened it. Paul Lane's pale and discontented face appeared.

"Halloa! Haven't seen you since that dinner! May I come in for a minute?"

He spoke to the Mansfields.

"Perfectly marvellous! Everyone behind the scenes is mad about it! Annie Meredith says she will make the success of her life in it. Who's that Frenchwoman with Adelaide Shiffney? Madame Sennier, the composer's wife--his second, the first killed herself. Very clever woman. She's not going to kill herself. Sennier says he could do nothing without her, never would have done this opera but for her. She found him the libretto, kept him at it, got the Covent Garden management interested in it, persuaded Annie Meredith to come over from South America to sing the part. An extraordinary woman, ugly, but a will of iron, and an ambition that can't be kept back. Her hour of triumph to-night. There goes the curtain."

As Lane slipped out of the box, he whispered to Heath:

"Mrs. Shiffney hopes you'll come and speak to her between the acts. Her name's on the door."

Heath sat down a little behind Mrs. Mansfield. Although the curtain was now up he noticed that Charmian, with raised opera-gla.s.ses, was earnestly looking at Mrs. Shiffney's box. He noticed, too, that her left hand shook slightly, almost imperceptibly.

"Her hour of triumph!" Yes, the hour proved to be that. Madame Sennier's energies had not been expended in vain. From the first bars of music, from the first actions upon the stage, the audience was captured by the new work. There was no hesitating. There were no dangerous moments. The evening was like a crescendo, admirably devised and carried out. And through it all Charmian watched the ugly white face of the red-haired woman opposite to her, lived imaginatively in that woman's heart and brain, admired her, almost hated her, longed to be what she was.

Between the acts she saw men pouring into Mrs. Shiffney's box. And every one was presented to the ugly woman, whose vivacity and animation were evidently intense, who seemed to demand homage as a matter of course.

Several foreigners kissed her hand. Max Elliot's whole att.i.tude, as he bent over her, showed adoration and enthusiasm. Even Paul Lane was smiling, as he drew her attention to a glove split by his energy in applause.

Heath had spoken of Mrs. Shiffney's message. He was evidently reluctant to obey it, but Charmian insisted on his going.

"I want to know what Madame Sennier is like. You must ask her if she is happy, find out how happy she is."

"Charmian, Mr. Heath isn't a mental detective!"

"I speak such atrocious French!" said Heath, looking nervous and miserable.

"I suppose you can say, '_Chere Madame, j'espere que vous etes bien contente ce soir_?'"

When Heath had left the box Mrs. Mansfield said gravely to her daughter:

"Charmian!"

"Yes, Madretta."

"I don't think you are behaving very kindly this evening. You scarcely seem to remember that Mr. Heath is our guest."

"Against his will," she said, in a voice that was almost hard. There was a hardness, too, in her whole look and manner.

"I think that only makes the hostess's obligation the stronger," said Mrs. Mansfield. "I don't at all like the Margot manner with men."

"I'm sorry, Madre; but I had no idea I was imitating Margot Drake."

Mrs. Mansfield said no more. Charmian, with flushed cheeks and shining eyes, turned to look once more at Adelaide Shiffney's box.

In about three minutes she saw Mrs. Shiffney glance behind her. Max Elliot, who was still with her, got up and opened the door, and Heath stood in the background. Charmian frowned and pressed her little teeth on her lower lip. Her body felt stiff with attention, with scrutiny. She saw Heath come forward, Max Elliot holding him by the arm, and talking eagerly and smiling. Mrs. Shiffney smiled, too, laughed, gave him her powerful hand. Now he was being introduced to Madame Sennier, who surely appraised him with one swift, almost cruelly intelligent glance.

His French! His French! Charmian trembled for it, for him because of it.

If Mrs. Mansfield could have known how solicitous, how tender, how motherly, the girl felt at that moment under her mask of shining, radiant hardness! But Mrs. Mansfield was glancing about the house with grave and even troubled eyes.

Heath was talking to Madame Sennier. He was even sitting down beside her. She spoke, evidently with volubility, making rapid gestures with her hands. Then she paused. She was listening attentively to Heath. Mrs.

Shiffney and Elliot listened, too, as if absorbed. Heath's French must really be excellent. Why had he--? If only she could hear what he was saying! She tingled with curiosity. How he held them, those three people! From here he looked distinguished, interesting. He stood out even in this crowd as an interesting man. Madame Sennier made an upward movement of her head, full of will. She put out her hand, and laid it on Heath's arm. Now they all seemed to be talking together. Madame Sennier looked radiant, triumphant, even autocratic. She pointed toward the stage emphatically, made elaborate descriptive movements with her hands.

A bell sounded somewhere. Heath got up. In a moment he and Max Elliot had left the box together. The two women were alone. They leaned toward each other apparently in earnest conversation.

"I know they are talking about him! I know they are!"

Charmian actually formed the words with her lips. The curtain rose as Heath quietly entered the box. Charmian did not turn to him or look at him then. Only when the act was over did she move and say:

"Well, Mr. Heath, your French evidently comes at call."

"What--oh, we were talking in English!"