"Yes?" she said encouragingly.
"I was only going to say," he said, speaking now doggedly, "that I have never laid claim to anything—anything in the way of talent. It isn't quite fair, is it, to assume that I consider myself a man of talent or an important person when I don't?"
"Do you really mean to tell me that you don't think yourself a man of talent?"
"I am entirely unknown."
"What has that to do with it?"
"Nothing, of course, but—but perhaps it is only when he has something to offer, and has offered it, that a man knows what is his value."
"In that case you will know when you have produced your opera."
Claude looked down.
"All my good wishes and my prayers will go with you from now till its production," she continued, always lightly. "I have a right to be specially interested since that evening with Said Hitani. And then I have been privileged. I have read the libretto."
As she spoke Claude was conscious of uneasiness. He thought of Charmian, of Mrs. Shiffney, of the libretto. Had he not been carried away by events, by atmosphere, perhaps, and by the influence of music, which always had upon him such a dangerously powerful effect? He remembered the night when he had written his decisive letter to Charmian. Music had guided him then. Had it not guided him again in Constantine? Was it angel or demon in his life?