She had been awake most of the previous night, with jealous care studying the libretto Gillier had sold to Claude, which had been put into her hands by Mrs. Shiffney. At once she had recognized its unusual merit. She had in a high degree the faculty, possessed by many clever Frenchwomen, of detecting and appraising the value of a work of art. She was furious because Gillier's libretto had never been submitted to her husband; but she could not say all that was in her mind. She and Adelaide Shiffney had been frank with each other in the matter, and she had no intention of making any mistake because she was angry. "We haven't much time to spare. Jacques has to get on with his new opera." Gillier sat down on a chair with a certain cold and reluctant but definite politeness. His look and manner said: "I cannot, of course, leave this lady whom I hate." "He is a great man now. I congratulate you on his success." "Jacques was always a great man, but he didn't quite understand it." "You enlightened him, madame." "Exactly." "That was very clever of you." "It wasn't stupid. But I don't happen to be a stupid woman." Her yellow eyes narrowed. "I know how to detect quality. And I suppose you do?" "Why, madame?" "You tried to sell libretti to my husband before he was famous." "And failed." "Yes. But now I'm glad to know you have succeeded with another man who is not famous yet." Gillier laid his right hand down on one of the glazed black covers of _L'Illustration_. "You do not believe in my talent, madame. I cannot understand why you should be interested in such a matter." "You make the mistake of supposing that a talented man can never be immature. What you offered to my husband was immature; but I always knew you had talent." "Indeed? You never told me so that I remember." "You appeared to be fully aware of it." Gillier made a fist of his hand on the cover. He wished Jacques Sennier were setting the libretto he had sold to Claude Heath, and Madame Sennier wished exactly the same thing. He did not know her thought; but she divined his. With all her soul, greedy for her Jacques and for herself, she coveted that libretto. She almost hated Claude Heath for possessing it. And now, as she sat opposite to Gillier, with the round table between them, always alert for intrigue, she began to wonder whether in truth the libretto was irrevocably lost to them. "Weren't you?" she said, fixing her unflinching eyes upon him. "I knew I was not quite such a fool as your husband certainly thought me." "Jacques is a mere baby outside of his art." "_Si?_" "That is why I have to think for him very often. Which of the libretti has Mr. Heath bought?" "It is not one of those I had the honor of showing to Monsieur Sennier." "Really? You have written another specially for Mr. Heath?" "I wrote another to please myself. His wife saw it and took it to him. He was so foolish as to think it good enough to buy."