Joan assumed the appearance of looking through Ariel as through clear glass—something that might not be there at all—but the amusement on her lips and in her eyes turned genuine. She spoke only to Schwankovsky and as if both Hugh and Ariel had suddenly vanished. “I’m wild to see this picture, now that you tell me of it, Michael. And don’t be cut up about finding it in the grandmother’s apartment. If it weren’t rather fine she wouldn’t let it remain an instant. She has taste. Let’s go up this minute. I’m thrilled. Ariel has been misinformed, you can see.” Hugh stopped them. “I’ll have to get Grandam’s permission, of course. Joan knows she’s rather strong on etiquette, and that one has to be announced.” But Ariel again asserted herself: “Grandam said I might take Mr. Schwankovsky up. She knew he’d want to see ‘Noon.’ And then, if she can have Mrs. Nevin too, I’ll come down and say so.” When Hugh and Joan were left alone he said, by way of saying something in the face of her disconcerting, aloof silence, “Grandam is devoted to Ariel. She’d let her do anything she asked, I think.” “She’s dressed her up, I notice. Quite touching of your grandmother to be so interested, don’t you think? I do. She’s playing a game with Ariel, I imagine. Recreating a raw personality. Even a frock like that can’t work miracles though, and Grandam must know it in her heart. But life must be getting rather dull for her.” “Life is never dull for Grandam. At least, to me, she always seems to be living at a higher rate of vibration than the rest of us.” He smiled at an idea which leapt in his mind. “Do you know, to me, she’s something like babies are, under two years at any rate, growing while they sleep, while your back’s turned, changing like anything, every minute. Think how marvelously quickly they learn terribly deep and obscure things! what words mean, for instance, and cause and effect, and all! Grandam is still like that,—simply rushing along into new perceptions of Life. You and I have slowed down long ago. We feel and experience. But do we change? I don’t, much. Not consciously, anyway. But she’s simply absorbed and exhilarated with her processes of change! She’s—” But Joan had turned away and was groping for a cigarette in the silver box on the mantel above the fire, with her back to Hugh. “Oh, come! That’s enough about your grandmother. This box is empty, drat it! I need a cigarette.” “I’ll get some from the library,” he offered, and was gone. As he went, Joan turned about and looked after his back, astounded. She had thought him almost at her shoulder—and now he was gone, like that. When he returned she was nonchalantly settled on the gilt sofa. She waved away the cigarette she had said she wanted. “I’ve smoked too much to-day,” she murmured. “Much too much. I’d like to give it up altogether. It’s become so usual, and it never was exactly a beautiful performance, a woman smoking!” Hugh lighted a cigarette for himself and sat down a little ways off.