Later that morning, Mrs. Collingham motored from Marillo to see Hubert Wray’s much-discussed picture, "Life and Death," in a famous dealer’s gallery in Fifth Avenue. It had hung there a week, and though the season was dead, it was being talked about. Among the few in New York who care for the art of painting, the picture had "caught on." The important critics had honored it with articles, in which one wrote black and another white with an equal authority. The important middlemen had come in to look at it, saying to one another, "Here’s a fellow who’ll go far—_en voilà un qui va faire son chemin_." The important connoisseurs had made a point of viewing it, with their customary fear of expressing admiration for the work of a native son. From the few who knew, the interest was spreading to the many who didn’t know but were anxious to appear as if they did. Junia’s introduction to the picture had caused her some chagrin. She had not ranked Hubert among the important family acquaintances, and when he came down to Collingham Lodge, for a night or two, as occasionally he did, she presented him to only the more negligible neighbors. "A young man Bob met in France," was all the explanation he required. But in dining out recently she had been led in to dinner by a man of unusual enlightenment, with whose flair and discernment she liked to keep abreast. To do this she was accustomed to fall back on such scraps of reviews or art notes as drifted to her through the papers, bringing them out with that knack of "putting her best goods in the window" which was part of her social equipment. Books and the theater being too light for her attention, she was fond of displaying in music and painting the _expertise_ of a patroness. She could not only talk of Boldini and Cezanne, of Paul Dukas and Vincent d’Indy, but could throw off the names of younger men just coming into view as if eagerly following their development. Her neighbor’s comments on the new picture, "Life and Death," at the Kahler Gallery were of value to her chiefly because they were up to date and told her what to say. "A reaction against the cubists and post-impressionists in favor of an art rich in color, suggestion, and significance," was a useful phrase and one easy to remember. But not having caught the painter’s name, she felt it something of a shock when, with the impressiveness of one whose notice confers recognition, her escort went on to remark: "I’m going to look up this young Hubert Wray and ask him down to Marillo. You and Bradley will be interested in meeting him." Junia’s chagrin was inward, of course, and arose from the fact of having had a budding celebrity like a tame cat about the house, not merely without suspecting it, but without keeping in touch with the thing he was creating. At the same time, she couldn’t have been the woman she was had it not been for the faculty of tuning herself up to any necessary key.