It was very much cooler. The gallery where the Clare pictures were hung was a huge room covering nearly half a block, and the crowds which had choked the anteroom, Hugh could observe through the great open doors, were mere driblets of humanity almost lost in the expanse of floor space.
He pushed a chair to an open window, where he would find air to breathe if there was any, and composed himself, outwardly, to wait. People continued to arrive by the elevators, and even some undaunted and impatient ones by the stairs. They hesitated in the anteroom to secure their catalogues from Charlie Frye, who was officiating at the desk there, and passed quickly on into the gallery, where a babble, as the minutes passed, was rising gradually higher and higher, with Schwankovsky’s big voice forever cresting it.
Hugh spent his time between watching the door for the appearance of the girls and studying the catalogue which Charlie Frye had, unsolicited, thrust into his hands. It was a good-looking catalogue, engraved on creamy, thick paper.
“The Shell” ... “Tree in the Sun” ... “Reef” ... “Under the Rock.” ...
Gradually he worked down the list of two hundred odd titles. And although he knew that the dancer appeared in them all, in no title was she mentioned. He was vastly relieved by this fact. But then his eye caught something it had missed. “212. Sketch for the Dancer.” He remembered Schwankovsky’s mention of this sketch and he was chilled. Schwankovsky had said that life without it would be unthinkable, or something as exaggerated.
A finger of shadow fell on “212. Sketch for the Dancer.” Hugh sprang to his feet, for he was aware of Joan, and had a sense that she had been standing beside him for some appreciable seconds before she made the stir that flung the shadow. She gave him her hand. He took it warmly, but instantly looked beyond her for Ariel. “Where is she?”
If his question had been a slap in Joan’s face a more scarlet stain would not have whipped her cheeks. She looked at Hugh with astonishment too profound to hide. But he missed it, still looking for Ariel. Others, however, were not so unobservant. Art-lovers passing through the anteroom into the gallery turned their heads, and even paused to look again at the tall, very beautiful woman who appeared so gloriously angry. Meanwhile, she controlled her voice, if not her blazing eyes, and explained about Ariel.
“She isn’t coming. Your grandmother was taken ill, one of her attacks. In the middle of the morning. The servants got Doctor Bradshaw at once, and he brought a nurse. Ariel, in the excitement, I suppose, forgot to call me and explain. So when I went for her she merely came downstairs and told me about it. I offered to stay in her place and let Amos drive her in. But she wouldn’t listen. She wouldn’t stay long enough even to give me the essential details to bring to you. So I insisted on seeing Doctor Bradshaw. He assured me that the danger was quite past, for this time. He said, too, that Ariel was not needed now, and could come into the exhibition of her father’s paintings as well as not. I gathered that the poor child in her anxiety had been and was still being a trifle officious and that both doctor and nurse would be glad to have her out of it. But she was stronger than any of us.—Now I’m killed, sir, in all this heat, and without a glass of water or anything. Your messenger may fall dead at any moment. Smiling though, in the heroic manner.”
Hugh did not rally to her humor.
“My dear, you’ll let me take your car, won’t you, and go right out there? Schwankovsky or somebody will send you home. Where did you leave it?”