She looked at him, for all her air of serene composure, with a certain disquiet. What on earth was he up to now? What could he be thinking about? Frowning like that, he looked like a young Jupiter, bearded and burly (though not, she noticed, quite so burly as he had appeared in his overcoat) making ready to throw a thunderbolt. Perhaps he was thinking of her—suspecting her, seeing through the fastidious lady and feeling angry at her attempted deception. Or perhaps he was bored with her, perhaps he was wanting to go away. Well, let him go; she didn’t mind. Or perhaps he was just made like that—a moody young poet; that seemed, on the whole, the most likely explanation; it was also the most pleasing and romantic. She waited. They both waited. Gumbril looked at her and was put to shame by the spectacle of her quiet serenity. He must do something, he told himself; he must recover the Complete Man’s lost _morale_. Desperately he came to a halt in front of the one decent picture hanging on the walls. It was an eighteenth-century engraving of Raphael’s ‘Transfiguration’—better, he always thought, in black and white than in its bleakly-coloured original. “That’s a nice engraving,” he said. “Very nice.” The mere fact of having uttered at all was a great comfort to him, a real relief. “Yes,” she said, “That belongs to me. I found it in a second-hand shop, not far from here.” “Photography,” he pronounced, with that temporary earnestness which made him seem an enthusiast about everything, “is a mixed blessing. It has made it possible to reproduce pictures so easily and cheaply, that all the bad artists who were well occupied in the past, making engravings of good men’s paintings, are now free to do bad original work of their own.” All this was terribly impersonal, he told himself, terribly off the point. He was losing ground. He must do something drastic to win it back. But what? She came to his rescue. “I bought another at the same time,” she said. “‘The Last Communion of St. Jerome,’ by—who is it? I forget.” “Ah, you mean Domenichino’s ‘St. Jerome’?” The Complete Man was afloat again. “Poussin’s favourite picture. Mine too, very nearly. I’d like to see that.” “It’s in my room, I’m afraid. But if you don’t mind.” He bowed. “If _you_ don’t.” She smiled graciously to him and got up. “This way,” she said, and opened the door. “It’s a lovely picture,” Gumbril went on, loquaciously now, behind her, as they walked down the dark corridor. “And besides, I have a sentimental attachment to it. There used to be a copy of an engraving of it at home, when I was a child. And I remember wondering and wondering—oh, it went on for years—every time I saw the picture; wondering why on earth that old bishop (for I did know it was a bishop) should be handing the naked old man a five-shilling piece.”