Anne threw off his hand, sat bolt upright and cried “Ariel Clare! Good Heavens! I’d forgotten all about the creature. Hugh was bringing her out after lunch. Where’s she now, do you s’pose?” “I heard your mother telling some one on the telephone, I think, that the _Bermuda_ was several hours late. But I wonder whether she’ll have any—flaming qualities!” “Nobody knows anything about that in this household, except Hugh, and he’s been persistently uncommunicative ever since Mother hit the ceiling the morning he informed us that such a person was about to descend upon us to be a second daughter of the house for an indefinite period. Mother came down—from the ceiling, you know—almost at once, but she’d said enough to shut Hugh’s mouth. He merely says we’ll see for ourselves when Ariel gets here what she’s like. But he’s justified in his high-handedness. It’s he who runs the house—his money, I mean. So if he wants to have a guest, he’s a perfect right. Any kind of a guest, even the awfullest.” “But she may be all right. Why not? I don’t see—” The click of a lamp being turned on startled them. Mrs. Weyman, home from her Shakespeare Club meeting in Tarrytown, had come into the room unnoticed. Enderly sprang to his feet and in a second was slipping his hostess’ coat from her shoulders, taking her gloves. “We didn’t hear you,” he said needlessly and added, “We were discussing the expected guest. Anne and I are wondering what she’ll be like.” He carried the coat, hat and gloves swiftly out to the hall, deposited them in good order there on a chair, and came back. Mrs. Weyman had sat down beside her daughter and was leaning forward, holding chilled hands to the blaze, rubbing them slightly. They were long, essentially aristocratic hands, Enderly noted, like Anne’s. Mrs. Weyman glanced up. “Hugh has invited her to visit us because of his friendship for her father,” she explained. “She was only a little girl when he knew her. We shall have to wait to see what she is like now.” “Clare was an artist, wasn’t he? Didn’t Glenn tell me?” “He called himself one. But no one has ever heard of him. Or have you, perhaps?” There was a sudden access of hope in Mrs. Weyman’s modulated voice. But Enderly shook his head. “Not I. But that doesn’t signify. What I don’t know about art—” Mrs. Weyman stopped him. “You’d have at least heard the name. No. Hugh’s the only one who ever did hear about this particular artist, I suspect. But they were great friends. And it’s that that matters.” “Of course. But I didn’t realize that Hugh cared so much about art, that he was interested—”