It was very much cooler. The gallery where the Clare pictures were hung was a huge room covering nearly half a block, and the crowds which had choked the anteroom, Hugh could observe through the great open doors, were mere driblets of humanity almost lost in the expanse of floor space. He pushed a chair to an open window, where he would find air to breathe if there was any, and composed himself, outwardly, to wait. People continued to arrive by the elevators, and even some undaunted and impatient ones by the stairs. They hesitated in the anteroom to secure their catalogues from Charlie Frye, who was officiating at the desk there, and passed quickly on into the gallery, where a babble, as the minutes passed, was rising gradually higher and higher, with Schwankovsky’s big voice forever cresting it. Hugh spent his time between watching the door for the appearance of the girls and studying the catalogue which Charlie Frye had, unsolicited, thrust into his hands. It was a good-looking catalogue, engraved on creamy, thick paper. “The Shell” ... “Tree in the Sun” ... “Reef” ... “Under the Rock.” ... Gradually he worked down the list of two hundred odd titles. And although he knew that the dancer appeared in them all, in no title was she mentioned. He was vastly relieved by this fact. But then his eye caught something it had missed. “212. Sketch for the Dancer.” He remembered Schwankovsky’s mention of this sketch and he was chilled. Schwankovsky had said that life without it would be unthinkable, or something as exaggerated. A finger of shadow fell on “212. Sketch for the Dancer.” Hugh sprang to his feet, for he was aware of Joan, and had a sense that she had been standing beside him for some appreciable seconds before she made the stir that flung the shadow. She gave him her hand. He took it warmly, but instantly looked beyond her for Ariel. “Where is she?” If his question had been a slap in Joan’s face a more scarlet stain would not have whipped her cheeks. She looked at Hugh with astonishment too profound to hide. But he missed it, still looking for Ariel. Others, however, were not so unobservant. Art-lovers passing through the anteroom into the gallery turned their heads, and even paused to look again at the tall, very beautiful woman who appeared so gloriously angry. Meanwhile, she controlled her voice, if not her blazing eyes, and explained about Ariel.