"Constantine!" said Mrs. Shiffney. "That's no distance, only a night in the train. Can't you persuade him to come back and see us? Do be a dear and telegraph."
She spoke in her most airy way.
"I would in a minute. But he's not gone merely to amuse himself."
"The opera!" said Mrs. Shiffney. "By the way, is it indiscreet to ask who wrote the libretto?"
Again Charmian hesitated, and again overcame her hesitation.
"It is by a Frenchman, or rather an Algerian, French but born here. His name is Gillier."
"Armand Gillier?" exclaimed Madame Sennier, while her husband threw out his hands in a gesture of surprise.
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"Know him!" exclaimed the composer. "When have I not known him? Three libretti by him have I rejected—three, madame. He challenged me to a duel, pistols, if you please! I to fire, and perhaps be shot, because he cannot write a good libretto! Which has your poor unfortunate husband accepted?"
Charmian handed the tea. She felt Madame Sennier's hard and observant eyes—they were yellow eyes, and small—fixed upon her.