One lyric of William Watson's laid a spell upon her:
"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, Moréas.
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.