Mrs. Farquharson's Sunday evenings became pleasant spots in her barren week. She went there alone, as in the old days. Nothing was changed there: the same faces, the same bright, eager talk, the same welcome. Clytie became her old self, was astonished to find how many enthusiasms she still retained. She almost forgot that she was married, and had said farewell to theories of life and such like vanities. Only at times, when her own art came within the range of a friendly arrow, did she wince and remember with a pang that Clytie Davenant was dead. Redgrave, whom she occasionally met, forbore, with a portrait painter's intuitive delicacy, to question her upon the progress of her art under its new conditions. He divined that his prophecies had been correct, and he was sad; because he had had great hopes of Clytie. In a tentative way he spoke of it to Mrs. Farquharson, who confided to him her own surmises as to the dubious success of the marriage. Then Redgrave brightened, and declared that there was hope yet. “What do you mean?” cried Caroline with a touch of indignation; whereat Redgrave smiled in his serene way. “I mean that hitherto she has tried to look at life through her art. Now she will be able to look at art through her life.” “Then her art will be very feeble and miserable!” “Clytie's life has never been feeble and miserable,” he replied. “I feared it was going to be so--in a special sense, you know; I feared that she would be overpowered by the physical element her husband would bring into her atmosphere, and that she would develop into the fashionable married woman, and thus, at the same time, suffer in spirituality and lose her grip upon the subjects that form her artistic range.” “I can't see how an unhappy married life can help her,” said Caroline. “If such a deterioration is possible, it has taken place already.” “Doubtless it has,” Redgrave replied earnestly. “But it is not final. If she lives within herself again, she will recover spirituality and grip--both strengthened by experience and suffering. That is the most precious knowledge, Mrs. Farquharson, which we have bought with sorrow.” “Then mine must be very worthless,” cried Caroline. “And I'm very glad of it. I would rather be ignorant and happy than wise and sad. And I could wish the same for poor Clytie. I can understand the good and beautiful things of this world as well as most people, but I don't believe in art to all that extent. I may be a Philistine,--God forbid it, but perhaps I am,--and I like to see people happy.” “That depends upon what you call happiness,” said Redgrave. But Caroline was not to be led into an argument. She had her views and expounded them. “I mean common, all-round human happiness,” she said, “that makes you laugh to yourself when there's no particular reason for it. And I'd sooner Clytie have that and never touch a brush than paint the most world-convulsing pictures and be wretched.”