"Well, opera's the only thing nowadays, the only really big proposition. And it's going to be a bigger proposition than most people dream of." His eyes flashed. "Wait till I build an opera house in London, something better than that old barn of yours over against the Police Station." "Are you going to build an opera house here?" "Why not? But I've got to find some composers. They're somewhere about. Bound to be. The thing is to find them. It was a mere chance Sennier coming up. If he hadn't married his wife he'd be starving at this minute, and I'd be licking the Metropolitan into a cocked hat." Charmian longed to put her hand on the little man's arm and to say: "I've married a musician, I've married a genius. Take him up. Give him his chance." But she looked at those big brown eyes which confronted her under the twitching eyebrows. And now that the flash was gone she saw in them the soul of the business man. Claude was not a "business proposition." It was useless to speak of him yet. "I hope you'll find your composer," she said quietly, almost with a dainty indifference. Then someone came up and claimed Crayford with determination. "That's a pretty girl," he remarked. "Is she married? I didn't catch her name." "Oh, yes, she's married to an unknown man who composes." "The devil she is!" The lips above the tiny beard stretched in a smile that was rather sardonic. Before going away Charmian wanted to have a little talk with Susan Fleet, who was helping Mrs. Shiffney with the "fuzzywuzzies." She found her at length standing before a buffet, and entertaining a very thin and angular woman, dressed in black, with scarlet flowers growing out of her toilet in various unexpected places. Miss Fleet welcomed Charmian with her usual unimpassioned directness, and introduced her quietly to Miss Gretch, as her companion was called, surprisingly. Miss Gretch, who was drinking claret cup, and eating little rolls which contained hidden treasure of pate de foie gras, bowed and smiled with anxious intensity, then abruptly became unnaturally grave, and gazed with a sort of piercing attention at Charmian's hair, jewels, gown, fan, and shoes. "She seems to be memorizing me," thought Charmian, wondering who Miss Gretch was, and how she came to be there. "Stay here just a minute, will you?" said Susan Fleet. "Adelaide wants me, I see. I'll be back directly." "Please be sure to come. I want to talk to you," said Charmian. As Susan Fleet was going she murmured: "Miss Gretch writes for papers." Charmian turned to the angular guest with a certain alacrity. They talked together with animation till Susan Fleet came back. A week later, on coming down to breakfast before starting for the studio, Claude found among his letters a thin missive, open at the ends, and surrounded with yellow paper. He tore the paper, and three newspaper cuttings dropped on to his plate.