The atmosphere of Durdleham was uninspiring. Clytie could make no progress with her picture, and at last she laid it aside in despair. She had set her heart upon painting it, and the thoughts of it worried her, prevented her from sleeping. Not only would it give her fame, satisfy her ambition, stimulated by the success of “Jack,” but it would satisfy certain cravings of her soul. And yet she was conscious that only when these cravings found articulate utterance could the haunting shadows be fixed. The lack, therefore, seemed to lie in herself: whether in her spiritual nature or in her material experience of the world she could not tell; perhaps it was a subtle combination of the two. She could not bring her lens of introspection to a focus. What she saw through it was blurred and inchoate. She had looked forward to Kent's reply to her letter. His sympathetic common sense might help her. When his answer did come, after some days' interval, it was strangely cold and dispiriting, just two sides of note-paper barely filled with sententious enigma. “If the painting of it will bring you joy, paint. If not, you are grasping at shadows.” That was the gist of it. What did it mean? Clytie was inclined to be indignant. Her own letter had been written out of the friendliness and needs of her heart, and the reply seemed almost like a rebuff. She did not know that the writing of it had caused Kent two hours' perplexed wretchedness. Even the finest feminine perception cannot pierce through a millstone. The little feeling of resentment towards Kent took the keenness of edge from her anticipated pleasure of seeing him again; at least so she told herself when she packed her boxes at the end of her visit to Durdleham. But as the train brought her nearer to London her spirits rose. She was free once more to live her own life, without fear of comment or criticism. It was simple, laborious, and innocent enough, and she desired little more at present; but there was the exhilarating sense of freedom, of perfect liberty to be outrageous, reckless, if such was her good pleasure, wherein lies much of the sweetness of independence. She found her sitting-room tidied, neatly arranged, looking as nearly as possible as if it had never been vacated, and Winifred, a transforming fairy in the midst of it, eagerly awaiting her. Clytie sighed a little as she listened to Winnie's gossip. The latter looked at her with reproachful inquiry. “I was only thinking, dear, that this is more my home than the house at Durdleham, and you are dearer to me than anyone there.”