There was no question of Hugh finding a chair for his mother while they waited that ten minutes. They were lucky, they felt, in having and retaining standing room. As the day had turned out to be an unseasonably hot day, far more like August at its hottest than mid-May, the room was almost unbearably close. Very soon Mrs. Weyman murmured, “Really, Hugh, I shan’t be able to stay. I’d rather go out and return to-morrow after the first rush. After all, what is the advantage in being among the first in the stampede for this show?” “Oh, do stick it if you can, darling,” Hugh urged. “I’ll find you some ice-water. Will that help?” He himself was only stimulated to a kind of elation by the heat and the pressing crowd. “Of course it will help. But you’re the only person I know, Hugh, who would so confidently promise ice-water in these circumstances. And the nice part of it is that I know you’ll manage it somehow. You’re awfully satisfactory, dear boy.” He grinned down at her his appreciation of her appreciation, patted her arm, and vanished like a genie. When he returned through the envious crowd, steadying a paper cup filled to the brim with ice-water, he found that Schwankovsky, against all the laws of physics, had made a place for his great bulk in the room somehow, and was towering above Mrs. Weyman, talking down at the top of her smart spring hat. “Warm?” he was booming. “Why, I hadn’t thought so. Hadn’t noticed. Those pictures in there are more on my mind than the weather. They’re going to take you by storm, I promise. You never saw sunlight in paint before, on canvas. It’s epoch-making. You’ll see. It almost blinds you, this Clare sunlight does.” Mrs. Weyman shuddered prettily, and gratefully took the drink from Hugh’s hands. “But didn’t he paint any shade?” she asked. “If not, I absolutely shall not risk it.” “Pooh! You wouldn’t miss it for the world. But where’s my Ariel? I thought she was with you, Weyman. She must be here when the doors are opened.” Hugh was annoyed. He felt it very important for Ariel’s peace of mind and her enjoyment of the victory—if the exhibition was to prove a victory—that she should be unrecognized, and he expected Schwankovsky to think of this and be a little careful. “Joan’s driving Ariel in. They’ll be here any minute,” he replied in as low a voice as he could use and still be heard. But the minute hand on the face of Schwankovsky’s absurd little platinum wristwatch moved on under his anxious gaze, and proved Hugh wrong. Schwankovsky waited five minutes beyond the announced time of the opening for Joan and Ariel to make their appearance before, with a disappointed grunt, he gave the sign to Charlie Frye to slide back the big doors. “I’ll wait here for them,” Hugh told his mother. “You go on in, though. It’ll be cooler there.”