The stealthy fear that had been following her all these days had her by the throat now. The great vision of beauty through which she had been moving as one enchanted was turned to a phantasmagoria of evil mocking shapes. She hated the past; she hated its splendor, its power, its wicked magical vitality.... She dropped into a seat and continued to stare at the wall before her. Gradually, as she stared, there stole out to her from the dimmed humbled canvases a reminder of what she had once seen in them, a spectral appeal to her faith to call them back to life. What proof had she that her present estimate of them was less subjective than the other? The confused impressions of the last few days were hardly to be pleaded as a valid theory of art. How, after all, did she know that the pictures were bad? On what suddenly acquired technical standard had she thus decided the case against them? It seemed as though it were a standard outside of herself, as though some unheeded inner sense were gradually making her aware of the presence, in that empty room, of a critical intelligence that was giving out a subtle effluence of disapproval. The fancy was so vivid that, to shake it off, she rose and began to move about again. In the middle of the room stood a monumental divan surmounted by a _massif_ of palms and azaleas. As Claudia’s muffled wanderings carried her around the angle of this seat, she saw that its farther side was occupied by the figure of a man, who sat with his hands resting on his stick and his head bowed upon them. She gave a little cry and her husband rose and faced her. Instantly the live point of consciousness was shifted, and she became aware that the quality of the pictures no longer mattered. It was what _he_ thought of them that counted: her life hung on that. They looked at each other a moment in silence; such concussions are not apt to flash into immediate speech. At length he said simply, “I didn’t know you were coming here.” She colored as though he had charged her with something underhand. “I didn’t mean to,” she stammered; “but I was too early for our appointment--“ Her word’s cast a revealing glare on the situation. Neither of them looked at the pictures; but to Claudia those unobtruding presences seemed suddenly to press upon them and force them apart. Keniston glanced at his watch. “It’s twelve o’clock,” he said. “Shall we go on?” V At the door he called a cab and put her in it; then, drawing out his watch again, he said abruptly: “I believe I’ll let you go alone. I’ll join you at the hotel in time for luncheon.” She wondered for a moment if he meant to return to the gallery; but, looking back as she drove off, she saw him walk rapidly away in the opposite direction.