"Please tell me what it is you want of me, or my husband, or of both of us."
"I do not—I have not said I want anything. But it is true I want success. I want it for this work of mine. Since I have been in Constantine with Monsieur Heath I have—very reluctantly, madame, believe me!—come to the conclusion that he and I are not suited to be associated together in the production of a work of art. We are too different the one from the other. I am an Algerian ex-soldier, a man who has gone into the depths of life. He is an English Puritan who never has lived, and never will live. I have done all I could to make him understand something of the life not merely in, but that underlies—underlies—my libretto. My efforts—well, what can I say?"—he flung out his hands and shrugged his shoulders.
"It is only the difference between the French and English temperaments."
"No, madame. It is the difference between the man who is and the man who is not afraid to live."
"I don't agree with you," said Charmian coldly. "But really it is not a matter which I can discuss with you."
"I have no wish to discuss it. All I wish to say is this"—he looked down, hesitated, then with a sort of dogged obstinacy continued, "that I am willing to buy back my libretto from you at the price for which I sold it. I have come to the conclusion that it is not likely to suit your husband's talent. I am very poor indeed, alas! but I prefer to lose a hundred pounds rather than to—"
"Have you spoken to my husband of this?" Charmian interrupted him.
She was almost trembling with anger and excitement, but she managed to speak quietly.
"No, madame."
"You have asked me a question—"