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."