During their earlier interviews he had carried Amory entirely off her feet. Though his tongue had cautioned and disclaimed, there had been no resisting the promise of his eye. Croziers' were going to take her up, and--well, at the present stage "Mr. Towers" (ha, ha) would quite understand that Mr. Dix did not want to say too much about it.--But his very reticence had seemed a guarantee. It was not to be supposed that Messrs. Crozier took people up without a certain amount of belief in them.... And that had kept Amory's head in the clouds for quite a long time.... But little by little it had dawned on Amory that time seemed of very little value to Messrs. Crozier. A thousand years in their sight--or two years, to be precise--was but as yesterday. Delay after delay had occurred; Messrs. Crozier had not judged this time to be quite ripe, had considered that market to be a little overstocked; it was necessary, if the success was to be made for which they hoped, that the time should be chosen to the hour; and so on and so forth.--"You're far from being old yet, if I may say so without offence, Miss Towers," Mr. Dix had remarked, rolling his eye over Amory's small, straight little figure, as if the organ had been mounted on an universal joint.... But lately it had looked as if things really were in motion again. Amory had had several letters with the Crozier embossing on the envelope flap, asking her to state at once in what state of advancement her works were, and once she had even had a prepaid telegram.... Then things had slowed up once more, and Amory had fumed. Then, on a morning in May, a hansom cab drew up at the greengrocer's in Cheyne Walk, and Mr. Hamilton Dix, seeing Amory look out of the window, had waved his plump hand. He blundered up the stairs, and told Amory that he wished to see the canvases themselves, at once; at once, mind you.... There were between twenty-five and thirty of these canvases; they were stacked round the walls like the slates in a builder's yard; and Mr. Dix rolled his eye over them as Amory set them, one after another, on her easel. Then he rolled the eye over Amory herself again. Again Amory somehow had the impression of gluten. It was as if the eye had left traces where it had rested. "Excellent. Admirable. Very choice. Very good indeed," said Mr. Dix. "And now, Miss Towers, I'm afraid I've a disappointment for you." If Mr. Dix spoke of a disappointment it was sure not to be so bad as it sounded. Amory watched him a little anxiously, however. Another postponement would be really too bad. "It's the old difficulty, the difficulty of fitting in the dates," Mr. Dix said. "Mr. Hugh Crozier is deeply apologetic about it; he's quite as much disappointed as you can possibly be; but--well, I see I shall have to tell you a secret that must on no account pass these four walls." Mr. Dix told his secret. It was that Herbertson, the brilliant pastelist, was not expected to live through the week.