Hugh was exhilarated enough in the good fortune that seemed promised to the Gregory Clare exhibition now; but he was even more exhilarated that Joan had been kind enough to use her influence. For what she did for Ariel she did for Hugh himself. Or so he thought,—in his own mind having identified Ariel’s good with his. Ariel was as close to his heart as Anne almost, even in this short time, and he was more responsible for her than for Anne. For Anne needed only his financial support. That was easy enough. Ariel needed something infinitely more subtile—and, yes—more important. Affection which she could count on, and sympathy. Hugh realized that he had never in his life been vital to any other living soul in precisely the way Ariel made him feel that he was vital to her. If Joan had wanted to marry him ten years ago, instead of Nevin, and Persis and Nicky were his and hers, he might have toward those children something of this same consoling sense of obligation. It was what his life had missed even more than it had missed intimate companionship with the woman he loved. And now, at last, he and Joan were sharing a living, lovely, common interest—Ariel’s good. “By the way, you must have already seen this Schwankovsky person, Ariel. Did you know? He was the bearded creature who met Mrs. Nevin at the boat. They’re great friends.—So perhaps this isn’t ‘in spite of Mrs. Nevin.’ See here! Let’s us two go for a walk and celebrate by having lunch together, just ourselves, at an inn I know near Scarsdale. And, I say, Ariel, wear your white coat.” Chapter XIV Mrs. Nevin had been visiting in Philadelphia at a house party a few days, and Hugh had not the opportunity to thank her for what he was convinced was the result of her machinations concerning the Clare pictures. He thought of writing, but decided against it, preferring to express to her face the gratitude which he felt so deeply. Strange, sweet gratitude, really. Soon now her voice might come to him on the telephone either at his office or Wild Acres, to tell him that she was back and wanted to see him. For because it was Hugh who did most of the wanting, the initiative had become, gradually, almost entirely Joan’s. She knew, and he knew that she knew, that he would break an appointment with heaven itself for a three-minute encounter with her anywhere, any time. And this being true, the initiative had to be hers, unless he were to lose her altogether; for if it were his he would only drive her from his life by constant importunities. The only way to hold Joan, Hugh knew, was by letting her go. Her summons came sooner than he had dared hope. The telephone on his office desk rang joyfully. She was to be in town that evening, she said, for a dinner at Schwankovsky’s. Afterwards Michael wouldn’t mind a bit if Hugh turned up there. They’d probably dance.