But Schwankovsky hummed, deep in his throat. “Um ... Ah ... Um ... This one, Weyman, we’ve given a rather high figure. I did that, meaning to get it myself. However, when you take it up with Frye—he’s the business manager—say I waive my claim, if, hearing the price, you still want it. No sales are being made until the end of the exhibition, but people are speaking ahead, of course. The sketch for this painting, let me tell you, nobody could get for love or money. It’s mine. It’s really finer than the painting. There’s an exquisiteness, almost supernatural, that is lost in the paint. And the foot and leg, the turn of that bared shoulder—it’s spiritually ravishing. But if you can afford to own ‘The Shell,’ Weyman, you needn’t worry. It’s the pick of all the paintings—except for ‘Noon.’ That’s—” He broke off in disgust, suddenly remembering “Noon’s” history, and Hugh’s connection with it. “If Frye lets ‘The Shell’ go to you, he’d better see that a contract goes with it, stating explicitly that you’ll not hang it in your attic or your cellar. Come to think of it, Weyman, you’re probably an art sadist!” He turned on Joan. “Would that be possible? You know all about morbid psychology. Do some men like to torment artists as others like to torment women?” Joan shrugged this away. And Hugh was too genuinely moved by the painting before him, and by his underlying anxiety for his grandmother, to speculate which Schwankovsky thought himself, humorous or insulting. Joan took Hugh’s arm and said impatiently, but her impatience was directed toward Michael Schwankovsky, “Hugh! It’s getting dreadfully close! Let’s look at the ‘Studio’ Michael’s giving me, and dash off. How will your mother get home? We must find her and tell her about your grandmother.” “You will come back to-morrow and all the days, I trust,” Schwankovsky commanded them both. “And please take my devoted respects to Mrs. Weyman. The first minute she will see me I shall beg the privilege. But she knows this. She’s agreed to send me word when next I may have that felicity. And give my Ariel my fondest love, fondest kisses, and describe for her the crowds and the enthusiasm. Our success is already apparent. Not? But you look tired, Joan, my girl! It is the heat. Insist on driving, Weyman. She has no business to be your chauffeur, looking like that!” When they were down on the Avenue, walking toward the spot where Joan, by bribing a policeman pretty heavily, had been able to park only half a block from the galleries, Hugh urged, “Do let me drive, Joan. Schwankovsky’s right. The heat has got you. I won’t strip the gears, or anything.” But Joan autocratically rejected the idea. “It will be cooler the minute we are out of this ghastly city,” she said. “I wouldn’t have had Amos put down the top if I’d realized what a blazing day it is. But we won’t even stop to get it up now. Only I don’t want to worry you, Hugh. You will tell me if I go too fast?”