After that, for the remaining days of his vacation on the island, Hugh was constantly at the studio. He must have entirely deserted his mother and sister, and he never bothered to speak of them again, after his first mention of the fact that there were such persons with him at the hotel in Hamilton. Even the morning that his boat was to sail he appeared at the studio, inviting himself to breakfast with the Clares, in spite of having had a farewell dinner with them the night before. And that morning, at last, he commented on Gregory Clare’s work, or at least on one of his canvases. It was time for him to go, they had told him, if he was to make his boat; but he delayed. And suddenly, in an embarrassed manner he turned back from the door, when they really thought he was off, and standing in front of an easel with a just finished painting on it blurted, “I really like this one, ‘Noon,’ the best of the lot, Clare, if you don’t mind my saying so. It’s the light that makes it so extraordinary, isn’t it? It beats out on you. Makes you squint. It’s the first time I ever saw light, or even felt it; I’m sure of that. Your picture has taught me what the sun hasn’t!” He laughed, self-depreciatively, and added almost defiantly, “It’s great stuff, I think!” Ariel’s father said nothing. He stood by the table in the wide window where they had just breakfasted, jingling some coin in the pockets of his white duck trousers, and kept a smiling silence. Ariel wanted to cry, “Oh, do go; hurry, Hugh, now, or you’ll miss your boat!” But Hugh seemed to be waiting for something, wanting to say more, and she kept still. After a minute he got it out, “I’d like awfully to take this picture home with me, Clare. Now. I’ve written out a check for a thousand dollars—did it last night—just on the chance you’d sell. I don’t know anything, of course, about the prices you put on your stuff. But this is exactly one quarter of my year’s allowance, and all the actual cash I can put my hands on now. If you _will_ sell, and the price is higher—and you can wait for the rest—” Hugh was not looking at the artist or at Ariel or even at the picture by this time. His abashed gaze was toward the sea, while he waited for Gregory Clare to answer.