There poor Reuben would lie--deserted, still-born, ever dustier and dustier whilst other stories came pouring, pouring from endless presses, covering, crowding it down, stamping upon it, burying it.... “Here lies 'Reuben Hallard.'...” Poor Peter! On Thursday, however, there was the tea-party--a Thursday never to be forgotten whilst Peter was alive. Bobby had told him the day before that his father might be coming. “The rest of the family will turn up for certain. They want to see you. They're always all agog for any new thing--one of them's always playing Cabot to somebody else's Columbus. But father's uncertain. He gets something into his head and then nothing whatever will draw him out--but I expect he'll turn up.” The other visitor was announced to Peter on the very day. “By the way, Peter, somebody's coming to tea this afternoon who's met you before--met you at that odd boarding-house of yours--a Miss Rossiter. Clare's an old friend of ours. I told you down at the sea about her and you said you remembered meeting her.” “Remembered meeting her!” Did Dante remember meeting Beatrice--did Petrarch remember Laura? Did Keats forget his Fanny Brawne? Did Richard Feverel forget his Lucy? On a level with these high-thinking gentlemen was Peter, disguising his emotions from Alice's sharp eyes but silent, breathless, wanting some other place than that high studio in which to breathe. “Yes--she came to tea once with a Miss Monogue there--I liked her....” He was not there, but rather on some height alone with her and their hands touched over a photograph. “The Man on the Lion.” There was something worthy of his feeling for her!