"What's this?" he said to Charmian, who was sitting opposite to him. "Romeike and Curtice! Why should they send me anything?" He picked up one of the cuttings. "It's from a paper called _My Lady_." "What is it about?" "It seems to be an account of Mrs. Shiffney's party, with something marked in blue pencil, 'Mrs. Claude Heath came in late with her brilliant husband, whose remarkable musical compositions have not yet attained to the celebrity which will undoubtedly be theirs within no long time. The few who have heard Mr. Heath's music place him with Elgar, Max Reger, and Delius.' Then a description of what you were wearing. How very ridiculous and objectionable!" Claude looked furious and almost ashamed. "Here's something else! 'A Composer's Studio,' from _The World and His Wife_. It really is insufferable." "Why? What can it say?" "'Mr. Claude Heath, the rising young composer, who recently married the beautiful Miss Charmian Mansfield, of Berkeley Square, has just rented and furnished elaborately a magnificent studio in Renwick Place, Chelsea. Exquisite Persian rugs strew the floor----'" Claude stopped, and with an abrupt movement tore the cuttings to pieces and threw them on the carpet. "What can it mean? Who on earth----? Charmian, do you know anything of this?" "Oh," she said, with a sort of earnest disgust, mingled with surprise, "it must be that dreadful Miss Gretch!" "Dreadful Miss Gretch! I never heard of her. Who is she?" "At Adelaide Shiffney's the other night Susan Fleet introduced me to a Miss Gretch. I believe she sometimes writes, for papers or something. I had a little talk with her while I was waiting for Susan to come back." "Did you tell her about the studio?" "Let me see! Did I? Yes, I believe I did say something. You see, Claude, it was the night of----" "I know it was. But how could you----?" "How could I suppose things said in a private conversation would ever appear in print? I only said that you had a studio because you composed and wanted quiet, and that I had been picking up a few old things to make it look homey. How extraordinary of Miss Gretch!" "It has made me look very ridiculous. I am quite unknown, and therefore it is impossible for the public to be interested in me. Miss Gretch is certainly a very inefficient journalist. Elgar! Delius too! I wonder she didn't compare me with Scriabine while she was about it. How hateful it is being made a laughing-stock like this." "Oh, nobody reads those papers, I expect. Still, Miss Gretch----" "Gretch! What a name!" said Claude. His anger vanished in an abrupt fit of laughter, but he started for the studio in half an hour looking decidedly grim. When he had gone Charmian picked up the torn cuttings which were lying on the carpet. She had been very slow in finishing breakfast that day.