Mrs. Shiffney's large mouth suddenly looked a little hard, though her general expression hardly altered.
"Oh! Whereabouts are they?"
"Up at Mustapha, not far from Mrs. Graham."
"They say he's trying to write an opera. Poor fellow! The very last thing he could do, I should think. But she pushes him on. Since that song of his—I forget the name, heart something or other—her head has been completely turned about his talent. The fact is, Susan, Sennier's sudden fame has turned all their heads, the young composers, les jeunes, you know. They are all trying to write operas. In Paris it's too absurd! But an Englishman, with his temperament, too—Oliver Cromwell in Harris tweed!—she must be mad. Of course even if he ever finishes it he will never get it produced."
Susan quietly went on eating her eggs.
"A totally unknown man. She thinks that song has made him quite a celebrity. But nobody has ever heard of him."
"Nobody had ever heard of Sennier till that night at Covent Garden," observed Susan, lifting a glass of water to her lips.
"Oh, yes, they had!"
Mrs. Shiffney's musical passion for Sennier often led her to embroider facts.