"Pass, thou wild heart, Wild heart of youth that still Hast half a will To stay. I grow too old a comrade, let us part. Pass thou away." She read that and the preceding verse again and again, in the grip of a strange and melancholy fascination, dreaming. She woke, and remembered that she was young, that Claude was young. But she had reached out and touched old age. She had realized, newly, the shortness of the time. And a sort of fever assailed her. Claude must begin, must waste no more precious hours; she would take him the poem of William Watson, would read it to him. He might make of it a song, and in the making he would learn something perhaps--to hasten on the path. She started for the studio one day, taking the _Belle Dame_, William Watson's poems, and two or three books of French poetry, Verlaine, Montesquiou, Moreas. She arrived in Renwick Place just after four o'clock. She meant to make tea for Claude and herself, and had brought with her some little cakes and a bottle of milk. Quite a load she was carrying. The gouty hands of the caretaker went up when he saw her. "My, ma'am, what a heavy lot for you to be carrying!" "I'm strong. Mr. Heath's in the studio?" Before the man could reply she heard the sound of a piano. "Oh, yes, he is. Is there water there? Yes. That's right. I'm going to boil the kettle and make tea." She went on quickly, opened the door softly, and slipped in. Claude, who sat with his back to her playing, did not hear her. She crept behind the screen into what she called "the kitchen." What fun! She could make the tea without his knowing that she was there, and bring it in to him when he stopped playing. As she softly prepared things she listened attentively, with a sort of burning attention, to the music. She had not heard it before. She knew that when her husband was composing he did not go to the piano. This must be something which he had just composed and was trying over. It sounded to her mystic, remote, very strange, almost like a soul communing with itself; then more violent, more sonorous, but always very strange. The kettle began to boil. She got ready the cups. In turning she knocked two spoons down from a shelf. They fell on the uncarpeted floor. "What's that? Who's there?" Claude had stopped playing abruptly. His voice was the voice of a man startled and angry. "Who's there?" he repeated loudly. She heard him get up and come toward the screen. "Claudie, do forgive me! I slipped in. I thought I would make tea for you. It's all ready. But I didn't mean to interrupt you. I was waiting till you had finished. I'm so sorry." "You, Charmian!" There was an odd remote expression in his eyes, and his whole face looked excited. "Do--do forgive me, Claudie! Those dreadful spoons!" She picked them up. "Of course. What are all these books doing here?" "I brought them. I thought after tea we might talk over words. You remember?" "Oh, yes. Well--but I've begun on something."