Hugh, however, very justly and at all times admired Joan’s driving, and to-day was no exception. It occurred to him, as they won out of traffic at last to the open road, where speed was not only possible but safe, that she would like to frighten him by her use of the accelerator,—that she wanted him to think her unduly reckless. But he knew, instinctively, that she would not for an instant endanger her beautiful body and rich life. So her passenger was safe. This was not a matter of skiing, where their interests were separated. “What are you thinking?” she asked, snatching a glance at his profile. He could scarcely tell her the truth, that he was seeing her, and for the first time, as a woman who would never under any circumstances be capable of living dangerously: that she might encourage it in others, but never if it involved herself. Besides, he imagined that he was still in love with her, and so he let the sudden unflattering perception slip from the foreground of his mind even as she asked her question. He said, what in truth had been very much in his heart all the time, “It’s a shame Ariel missed the opening. Did she seem dreadfully disappointed? Or was she too upset by Grandam’s attack to realize?” “I don’t think she realized. Imagination isn’t exactly Ariel’s long suit, is it? And of course, she was upset about your grandmother. Pain isn’t ever pretty—’specially to the young.” “Her father died that way. Did you know? So it would be all the worse. Poor girl!” Joan gripped the wheel. “Now I’m going to make time,” she warned. “Watch out for motor police, please. Your Ariel’s not a ‘poor girl’ at all. A supremely lucky one. In one day, without any merit or effort of her own, she’s become financially independent and perhaps even famous too. The next question, though, is: will the dear public ever grasp the fact that Gregory Clare idealized his model beyond conception? Or will they think her beautiful and talented, hypnotized by the suggestions of the press and Michael Schwankovsky’s ravings? What will they do to her? Pay her a fabulous fortune for showing herself to them in the talkies, or go by the thousands to see her walk around in front of velvet curtains, waving her arms above her head and kneeling now and then—an æsthetic dancer? What’s your guess, Hugh?” Hugh was some time before even trying to answer the cool and slightly weary voice of his interlocutor. When he did speak, finally, he too sounded slightly weary. “Personally, I don’t see why the public should bother about Ariel at all. But you and Brenda Loring seem to take it for granted that they will, so I’m wrong probably. It’s rather up to us, isn’t it, to protect her from cheap publicity. It’s in Schwankovsky’s power, I’m sure. Will you speak to him, Joan?”