Charmian was greatly excited. Claude still kept up his successful pretense of bold self-confidence. He had to strain every nerve to conceal his natural sensitiveness. But although he was racked by anxiety, and something else, he did not show it. Charmian was astonished by his apparent serenity now that the hour full of fate was approaching. She admired him more than ever. She even wondered at him, remembering moments, not far off, when he had shown a sort of furtive bitterness, or weariness, or depression, when she had partially divined a blackness of the depths. Now his self-confidence lifted her, and she told him so.
"There's an atmosphere of success round you," she said.
"Why not? We are going to reap the fruits of our labors," he replied.
"But even Alston is terribly nervous to-day."
"Is he? My hand is as steady as a rock."
He held it out, by a fierce effort kept it perfectly still for a moment, then let it drop against his side.
The bells of St. Patrick's Cathedral chimed five o'clock.
"Only an hour and we begin!" said Charmian. "Oh, Claude! This is almost worse than the performance."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Perhaps because it won't be final. And then they say at dress rehearsals things always go badly, and everyone thinks the piece, or the opera, is bound to be a failure. I feel wrinkles and gray hairs pouring over me in spite of your self-possession. I can't help it!"