She drew a quick breath. “You shall tell me,” she said, “but not here.” She glanced about the room filled with sickness and wild thoughts--not even the boy’s presence dispelled them. “We will go away somewhere--to the gallery,” she said quickly, “it is lighter there and I have not been there--for weeks.” Her voice dropped a little. The boy followed her through the hall, across a covered way, to the gallery that held the gems--and the refuse--that Philip Harris had gathered up from the world. She looked about her with a proud, imperious gesture. She knew--better now than when the pictures were purchased--which ones were good, and which were very bad; but she could not interfere with the gallery. It was Philip’s own place in the house. It had been his fancy--to buy pictures--when the money came pouring in faster than they could spend it--and the gallery was his own private venture--his gymnasium in culture! She smiled a little. Over there, a great canvas had been taken down and carted off to make room for the little Monticelli in its place. He was learning--yes! But she could not bring guests to the gallery when they came to Idlewood for the day. If he would only let a connoisseur go through the place and pick out the best ones--the gallery was not so bad! She looked about her with curious, tolerant smile. The boy’s gaze followed hers. He had not been in this big room, with the high-reaching skylight, and the vari-coloured pictures and grey walls. His dark eyes went everywhere--and flashed smiles and brought a touch-stone to the place. Eyes trained to the Acropolis were on the pictures; and the temples of the gods spoke in swift words or laughed out in quick surprise.