"He found himself, as people call it, on that night, I suppose," she said. "He is one of those men with a talent made for the great public. And he knew it, perhaps, for the first time that night. He is launched now on his destined career." "You believe in destiny?" She detected the sadness she had surprised in his eyes in his voice now. "Perhaps in our making of it." "Rather than in some great Power's imposing of it upon us?" "Ah, it's so difficult to know! When I was a child we had a game we loved. We went into a large room which was pitch dark. A person was hidden in it who had a shilling. Whichever child found that person had the shilling. There were terror and triumph in that game. It was scarcely like a game, it roused our feelings so strongly." "It is not everyone's destiny to find the holder of the shilling," said Claude. For a moment their eyes met. Claude suddenly reddened. "Have I? Does she suspect? Does she know?" went through his mind. And even Mrs. Mansfield felt embarrassed. For in that moment it was as if they had spoken to each other with a terrible frankness despite the silence of their lips. "Shan't we go down?" said Claude. "Surely you want something to eat, Madre?" "No, really. And I like a quiet talk with my new son." He said nothing, but she saw the strong affection in his face, lighting it, and she knew Claude loved her almost as a son may love a perfect mother. She wished that she dared to trust that love completely. But the instinctive reserve of the highly civilized held her back. And she only said: "You must not let marriage interfere too much with your work, Claude. I care very much for that. For years your work was everything to you. It can't be that, it oughtn't to be that now. But I want your marriage with Charmian to help, not to hinder you. Be true to your own instinct in your art and surely all must go well." "Yes, yes. To-morrow I must make a fresh start. I could never be an idler. I must--I must try to use life as food for my art!" He was speaking out his thought of the night when he wrote his letter to Charmian. But how cold, how doubtful it seemed when clothed in words. "Some can do that," said Mrs. Mansfield. "But, as I remember saying on the night of Charmian's return from Algiers, Swinburne's food was Putney. There is no rule. Follow your instinct." She spoke with a sort of strong pressure. And again their eyes met. "How well she understands me!" he thought. "Does she understand me too well?" He became hot, then cold, at the thought that perhaps she had divined his lack of love for her daughter.