Her mind made little rushes one way and another, trying to think if she had heard of him. He must be very famous, to give his name with such easy simplicity. Why do I know so little about art? she asked herself. Well, how can I keep up with things, there’s always so much to do. It’s George’s fault, expecting me to run a big house. If we’d gone to the Inn ... what are the names of the famous painters? Sargent was the only one she could think of. She could see George at the pantry window. In a moment she would have to introduce them, what should she say? What was George doing in the pantry? “George, let that cake alone!” she called. It sounded a pleasant humorous cry, but George’s well-tuned ear caught the undertone of fury. That was just like George. Whenever he was angry or upset he went to the pantry and got himself something to eat. “I was saving the cake for the Picnic,” she explained. “A Picnic!” said the stranger. His brown face was bright with interest. “When?” If George could invite people to the Picnic, why shouldn’t she? By the way, I mustn’t forget to order some sardines. “Where are you staying?” she asked. Apparently he didn’t understand this, for he replied, “I don’t mind.” He was looking at the pantry window, where George’s guilty face peered out from behind the wire screen. “How funny he looks, like a guinea-pig in a cage,” he said. That was exactly what George did look like, squinting out into the sunshine. The end of his nose, pressed against the mesh, was white and red, like a half-ripe strawberry. “George, this is Mr. Martin, the famous artist. He’s coming to our Picnic.” IV George was in a fidget, in the little sitting room that opened off the hall. It was just under the stairs and when any one went up or down he could hear the feet and couldn’t help pausing to identify them by the sound. It was astonishing how many footsteps passed along those stairs: and if they ceased for a while it was no better, for he found himself subconsciously waiting for the next and wondering whose they would be. He had laid out his maps and papers and the portable typewriter, all ready to begin work: the draft of his booklet on Summer Tranquillity (for the Eastern Railroad) would soon be due.