"Don't say it's aristocratic!" said Charmian, slightly screwing up her rather Japanese-looking eyes. "I cannot believe that anything really original in soul, really intense, could emanate from the British peerage. I know it too well." "It is neither aristocratic nor from the gutter. It is of the middle classes. Its father is a banker in the West of England." "A banker!" said Charmian in a deplorable voice. "It is Cornish." "Cornish! That's better. Strange things sometimes come out of Cornwall." "It has a little money of its own." "And its name--" "Is Claude Heath." "Claude Heath," slowly repeated Charmian. "The name means nothing to me. Do you know it, Mr. Lane?" Paul Lane shook his smooth black head. "Heath has not published anything," said Max Elliot, quite unmoved by the scepticism with which the atmosphere of Mrs. Mansfield's drawing-room was obviously charged. "Not even a Te Deum?" asked Charmian. "No, though I confess he has composed one." "If he has composed a Te Deum I give him up. He is _vieux jeu_. He should go and live in the Crystal Palace." "And it's superb!" added Max Elliot. "Till I heard it I never realized what the noble words of the Te Deum meant." Suddenly he got up and moved toward the window murmuring, "All the Earth doth worship Thee, the Father Everlasting." There was a silence in the room. Charmian's eyes suddenly filled with tears, she scarcely knew why. She felt as if a world was opening out before her, as if there were wide horizons to call to the gaze of those fitted to look upon them, and as if, perhaps, she were one of these elect. "Father Everlasting!" The words, and the way in which Max Elliot had spoken them, struck into her heart, and so made her feel keenly that she was a girl who had a heart that was not hard, that was eager, desirous, perhaps deep. As to Paul Lane, he stared at his remarkably perfect boots, and drew down the corners of his lips, and his white face seemed to darken as if a cloud floated through his mind and cast a shadow outward. In the pause the drawing-room door opened, and a woman with blazing dark eyes and snow-white hair, wearing a white tea-gown and a necklace of very fine Egyptian scarabs, came in, with an intense, self-possessed and inquiring look. This was Mrs. Mansfield, "my only mother," as Charmian sometimes absurdly called her. "You are talking, or you were talking, of something or somebody interesting," she said at once, looking round her at the three occupants of the room. Max Elliott turned eagerly toward her. He rejoiced in Mrs. Mansfield, and often came to her to "warm his hands at her delightful blaze." "Of somebody very interesting." "Whom we don't know?" "Whom very few people in London know." "A composer, my only mother, who never publishes, and who is the son of a banker in the West of England." Charmian seemed suddenly to have recovered her former mood, but she blinked away two tears as she spoke.