"This," said Charmian to herself, "is my idea of Hell."
She felt that she was being punished for every sin, however tiny, that she had ever committed. She longed to creep away and hide. She thought of all she had done to bring about the opera, of the flight from England, of the life at Djenan-el-Maqui, of the grand hopes that had lived in the little white house above the sea.
"Start it again, I tell you!" roared Crayford. "We can't stand here all night to hear you talking!"
"Yes," a voice within Charmian said, "this is Hell!"
She bent her head. She felt like one sinking down.
When the act was over she went out at once. She was afraid of Mrs. Shiffney.
The smiling colored man took her up in the elevator to a room where she found Claude in his shirt sleeves, with a cup of black coffee beside him, working at the score. He looked up.
"Charmian! I've just finished all I can do to-night. What's the time?"
"Nearly two."
"Did the third act go well?"