She did not actually drowse. She was aware of the discomfort of her hard seat, of herself perched stiffly upon it, and of the eternal, far-away confusion of footsteps that ticked and tapped and clattered as if the great building were the home of all the timepieces in the world; but she was indifferent, bound by that pleasant, trancelike numbness that will overtake you sometimes in church, or in the corner seat of an express. Not an inch of her wanted to stir again: she would murder any one who disturbed her in the next hundred years, if murder were not so energetic a business. Her mind dwelt with infinite contentment on a memory it had preserved of a donor’s robe that had caught her eye, shining out of some dreary acre of canvas like a geranium in a slum window. The colour made her purr as she thought of it. The sun, who never waited for the blinds’-man to finish his lunch, had arrived at the unprotected window behind her, and was kissing the back of her neck. She was as contented as a cat, and it was unforgivable of some one, some brawler at the other end of the world, to knock over a paint-box and scrape back a stool and come tearing past her like a wind, shouting— “Here! Hi! Here, I say! Cloud! Justin, old man! Well now, isn’t this jolly?” She opened her eyes and rubbed them crossly, as a child does when you rouse it too suddenly from sleep. What was the fuss now? Oh, there were the Clouds at last ... and the man—her eyes sulked up the room to where the painter had been standing—then the man _was_ Oliver.... What an unnecessary noise he was making!... And that was the third time he had shaken hands with Justin ... both hands.... So affected.... His hair was too thin to wear fluffed out, just like all the little students.... Now he was shaking hands again!... She wondered that Justin stood it. But Justin was looking so pleased.... She did not go up to them. She sat still on her stool and watched with a disapproval that grew like a beanstalk. He, Oliver, was handsome, she supposed, if you admired the type that cried out for gold ear-rings and a razor.... She didn’t.... The man wasn’t still a moment.... He talked with his whole body.... She could hear scraps: “My dearest fellow——Well, I was going on, but now you’ve come——Piece of luck——Tell you what old man——Oh, my dear soul——” One of these Italianate, epithetical people.... She knew she shouldn’t get on with him.... She wondered how much longer Justin would be content to stand there, beaming and button-holed. And then Mrs. Cloud caught sight of her, and this Oliver person had given her a quick amused look and said something to Justin as they all moved up the gallery towards her and she came down to them.