Claude's workroom was at the back of the house on the floor above the drawing-room. An upright piano replaced the grand piano of Mullion House, now dedicated to the drawing-room. There was a large flat writing-table in front of the window, where curtains of Irish frieze, dark green in color, hung shutting out the night and the ugliness at the back of Kensington Square. The walls were nearly covered with books. At the bottom of the bookcases were large drawers for music. A Canterbury held more music, and was placed beside the writing-table. The carpet was dark green without any pattern. In the fireplace were some curious Morris tiles, representing AEneas carrying Anchises, with Troy burning in the background. There were two armchairs, and a deep sofa covered in dark green. A photograph of Charmian stood on the writing-table. It showed her in evening dress, holding her Conder fan, and looking out with half-shut eyes. There was in it a hint of the assumed dreaminess which very sharp-witted modern maidens think decorative in photographs, the "I follow an ideal" expression, which makes men say, "What a charming girl! Looks as if she'd got something in her, too!" "It's a dear little room, isn't it, Claude?" said Charmian. "Yes, very." "You really like it, don't you? You like its atmosphere?" "I think you've done it delightfully. I was saying to Madre only this evening how extraordinarily clever you are in creating prettiness around you." "Were you? How nice of you." She laid her cheek against his shoulder. "You'll be able to work here?" "Why not?" "Let's shut the door, and just _feel_ the room for a minute." "All right." He shut the door. "Don't let us speak for a moment," she whispered. She was sitting now on the deep sofa just beyond the writing-table. Claude stood quite still. And in the silence which followed her words he strove to realize whether he would be able to work in the little room. Would anything come to him here? His eyes rested on Anchises, crouched on the back of his son, on the burning city of Troy. He felt confused, strange, and then _depayse_. That word alone meant what he felt just then. Ah, the little house with the one big room looking out on to the scrap of garden, yellow-haired Fan, Harriet discreet unto dumbness, Mrs. Searle with her scraps of wisdom--he with his freedom! The room was a cage, wire bars everywhere. Never could he work in it! "It is good for work, isn't it, Claudie? Even poor little I can feel that. What wonderful things you are going to do here. As wonderful as--" She checked herself abruptly. "As what?" he asked, striving to force an interest, to banish his secret desperation. "I won't tell you now. Some day--in a year, two years--I'll tell you." Her eyes shone. He thought they looked almost greedy. "When my man's done something wonderful!" CHAPTER XV