“I know. No. She isn’t beautiful by any special standards. But did you notice her eyelids in that painting? They are astonishingly beautiful, by _any_ standards.... Their pure corners ... petals ... And her hair....” “Hugh! You aren’t convinced! You do think her as beautiful every bit as Michael does? Is it seeing her in all those pictures this afternoon that’s made you? You’ve said all along—” Hugh laughed constrainedly. “This is nonsense. We’re babbling along like two schoolgirls about another girl! But I do admit and know that of course Ariel Clare is not a beautiful or even a pretty girl.... All the same, Beauty itself _has_ her, possesses her. Now you, Joan, dear, have Beauty. You possess It. Do you see the distinction? It’s a real one.” “No. Indeed I don’t. Hugh, you are maddening. Are you paying me a compliment in this new and inimitably mystical way of talking, or are you laughing at me?” Hugh put his arm along the seat at Joan’s back. “You’re the most beautiful girl this poor mortal has ever seen or dreamed of, Joan my dear. You know that, and God help me. Let’s forget Ariel.” “Let’s forget Ariel. Let’s forget Ariel. Let’s forget Ariel.” The words were merely an echo of a thin high cry that had arisen days ago in his heart. Imperceptibly but very actually Joan’s strong white hand relaxed on the glossy wheel. Hugh thought, “Her driving is superb. But I do hope she keeps up the speed and doesn’t slow down again. If she does keep it up we’ll be there soon, soon....” And Joan, though happily unconscious that she was doing so, gratified his unspoken desire. She drove where it was absolutely safe to do so at an almost terrific speed, and she did not speak again until she let Hugh out at his door. Chapter XXIII In a minute Hugh was standing in the hot attic hallway, among the bowls and jars of flowers which had been swept with the rest of Grandam’s personality out of her room. Under his feet, where his haste had almost broken it, was the wide, shell-like dish of hepaticas he had watched Ariel put up on the mantel long, long ago, that morning. He opened the door of the attic apartment cautiously, without knocking. As twice before when Grandam had had these heart attacks, her personality had fled the room and left it amazingly bare, even barren. The daybed was there by the long open window, white and stark, no violet and silver cushions left to its adornment,—and on it, straight between white sheets, propped high on white pillows, Grandam lay unstirring. Ariel sat in a chair on the far side of the bed, facing the door, hands folded in her lap. There was something in her posture and utter stillness that said she had been thus immobile a long while.