“For not going to see you?” “For not going to see his pictures!” cried the other nobly. Claudia colored and Keniston shifted his position uneasily. “I can’t make her understand,” he said, turning to his wife. “I don’t care about myself!” Mrs. Davant interjected. “_I_ do, then; it’s the only thing I do care about,” he hurriedly protested. “I meant to go at once--to write--Claudia wanted to go, but I wouldn’t let her.” He looked helplessly about the pleasant red-curtained room, which was rapidly burning itself into Claudia’s consciousness as a visible extension of Mrs. Davant’s claims. “I can’t explain,” he broke off. Mrs. Davant in turn addressed herself to Claudia. “People think it’s so odd,” she complained. “So many of the artists here are anxious to meet him; they’ve all been so charming about the pictures; and several of our American friends have come over from London expressly for the exhibition. I told every one that he would be here for the opening--there was a private view, you know--and they were so disappointed--they wanted to give him an ovation; and I didn’t know what to say. What _am_ I to say?” she abruptly ended. “There’s nothing to say,” said Keniston slowly. “But the exhibition closes the day after to-morrow.” “Well, _I_ sha’n’t close--I shall be here,” he declared with an effort at playfulness. “If they want to see me--all these people you’re kind enough to mention--won’t there be other chances?” “But I wanted them to see you _among_ your pictures--to hear you talk about them, explain them in that wonderful way. I wanted you to interpret each other, as Professor Wildmarsh says!” “Oh, hang Professor Wildmarsh!” said Keniston, softening the commination with a smile. “If my pictures are good for anything they oughtn’t to need explaining.” Mrs. Davant stared. “But I thought that was what made them so interesting!” she exclaimed. Keniston looked down. “Perhaps it was,” he murmured. There was an awkward silence, which Claudia broke by saying, with a glance at her husband: “But if the exhibition is to remain open to-morrow, could we not meet you there? And perhaps you could send word to some of our friends.” Mrs. Davant brightened like a child whose broken toy is glued together. “Oh, _do_ make him!” she implored. “I’ll ask them to come in the afternoon--we’ll make it into a little tea--a _five o’clock_. I’ll send word at once to everybody!” She gathered up her beruffled boa and sunshade, settling her plumage like a reassured bird. “It will be too lovely!” she ended in a self-consoling murmur. But in the doorway a new doubt assailed her. “You won’t fail me?” she said, turning plaintively to Keniston. “You’ll make him come, Mrs. Keniston?” “I’ll bring him!” Claudia promised. IV When, the next morning, she appeared equipped for their customary ramble, her husband surprised her by announcing that he meant to stay at home.