"Were you playing it just now?" "Some of it." "What is it?" "Francis Thompson's _The Hound of Heaven_." Jacob Crayford--what would he think of that sort of thing? "You know it, don't you?" Claude said, as she was silent. "I've read it, but quite a while ago. I don't remember it well. Of course I know it's very wonderful. Madre loves it." "She was speaking of it at the Shiffney's the other night. That's why it occurred to me to study it." "Oh. Well, now you have stopped shall we have tea?" "Yes. I've done enough for to-day." After tea Charmian said: "I'll study _The Hound of Heaven_ again. But now do you mind if I read you two or three of the things I have here?" "No," he said kindly, but not at all eagerly. "Do read anything you like." It was six o'clock when Charmian read Watson's poem "to finish up with." Claude who, absorbed secretly by the thought of his new composition, had listened so far without any keen interest, at moments had not listened at all, though preserving a decent attitude and manner of attention, suddenly woke up into genuine enthusiasm. "Give me that, Charmian!" he exclaimed. "I scarcely ever write a song. But I'll set that." She gave him the book eagerly. That evening they were at home. After dinner Claude went to his little room to write some letters, and Charmian read _The Hound of Heaven_. She decided against it. Beautiful though it was, she considered it too mystic, too religious. She was sure many people could not understand it. "I wish Madre hadn't talked to Claude about it," she thought. "He thinks so much of her opinion. And she doesn't care in the least whether Claude makes a hit with the public or not." The mere thought of the word "hit" in connection with Mrs. Mansfield almost made Charmian smile. "I suppose there's something dreadfully vulgar about me," she said to herself. "But I belong to the young generation. I can't help loving success." Mrs. Mansfield had been the friend, was the friend, of many successful men. They came to her for sympathy, advice. She followed their upward careers with interest, rejoiced in their triumphs. But she cared for the talent in a man rather than for what it brought him. Charmian knew that. And long ago Mrs. Mansfield had spoken of the plant that must grow in darkness. At this time Charmian began almost to dread her mother's influence upon her husband. She was cheered by a little success. Claude set Watson's poem rapidly. He played the song to Charmian, and she was delighted with it. "I know people would love that!" she cried. "If it was properly sung by someone with temperament," he replied. "And now I can go on with _The Hound of Heaven_." Her heart sank. "I'm only a little afraid they may think you are imitating Elgar," she murmured after a moment. "Imitating Elgar!" "Not that you are, or ever would do such a thing. It isn't your music, it's the subject, that makes me a little afraid. It seems to me to be an Elgar subject." "Really!"