"Oh, do forgive me for committing the unpardonable sin--babbling about myself! You're the only person I have ever--Forget all about it, won't you? I don't know why I did it. It was the music, I suppose, and the strangeness of this place, and thinking of your work and your hopes for the future. It made me wish I had some too, either for myself or for--for someone like you." As if irresistibly governed by feeling her voice had again changed, become once more warm as with emotion. But now she drew herself up a little and laughed. "Don't be afraid! It's over! But you have had a glimpse no one else has ever had, and I know you'll keep it to yourself. Let's talk of something else--anything. Tell me something about your libretto, if you care to." As they walked slowly toward the heart of the city, followed by the two Arabs, she took Claude's arm, very naturally, as if half for protection, half because it was dark and false steps were possible. And he told her a good deal, finally a great deal, about the libretto. "It sounds wonderful!" she said. "I'm so glad! But may I give you a little bit of advice?" "Yes, do." "Don't say anything about it to Henriette--Madame Sennier." "No. But--" "Why not? I scarcely know. My instinct! Don't!" "I won't," Claude said. "I'd give anything to read it. But if I were you I wouldn't let anyone read it. As you probably know, I'm in half the secrets of the artistic world, and always have been. But there isn't one woman in a hundred who can be trusted to hold her tongue. Is this the hotel? Good-night. Yes, isn't it a delicious coat? _Bonne nuit_, Amor! _A demain!_" A minute later Mrs. Shiffney tapped at Henriette's door, which was immediately opened. "It is all right," she whispered. "I shall have the libretto to-morrow." CHAPTER XXIII Two days later Mrs. Shiffney slipped Gillier's libretto surreptitiously into Claude's hand. "It's splendid!" she almost whispered. "With such a libretto you can't fail." They were in the deserted salon of the hotel, among armchairs, albums and old French picture-papers. Mrs. Shiffney looked toward the door. "Don't let anyone know I've read it--especially Henriette. She's a dear and a great friend of mine, but, all the same, she'd be horribly jealous. There's only one thing about the libretto that frightens me." "What is it? Do tell me!" "Having so many Easterns in it. If by any chance you should ever want to produce your opera--" She hesitated, with her eyes fixed upon him. "In America, I fancy--no, I think I'm being absurd." "But what do you mean? Do tell me! Not that there's the slightest chance yet of my opera ever being done anywhere." "Well, it's only that Americans do so hate what they call color." "Oh, but that is only in negroes!" "Is it? Then I'm talking nonsense! I'm so glad! Not a word to Henriette! Hush! Here she is!" At that moment the door opened and the white face of Madame Sennier looked in. "What are you two doing here? Where is Max?"