"I vote we don't waste much of this divine morning on pictures, Paul," he said suddenly. "Why bother about them at all?"
Wyndham started visibly; but in less than a minute he was master of himself and the situation.
"Well, as we're here, we may as well look in," he answered casually; and without waiting further objection, turned to enter the building.
Desmond, following, laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Anything to please you, old man," said he smiling.
"God knows you've danced attendance on my whims long enough!"
No sign of Honor in the cloistered coolness of the first room; only a small group of people in earnest talk before one of the pictures, and an artist, with stool and easel, making a conscientious copy of another.
Desmond made a cursory tour of the walls and passed on into the second room. Paul, increasingly anxious every moment, lagged behind and consulted his watch. It was twenty-five minutes past eleven. Would she never come?
The second room was empty, and there Desmond's aimless wandering had been checked by a battle picture; a vigorous and tragic presentment of Sir John Moore's retreat from Corunna.
"Here you are, Paul. Here's something worth looking at," said he as Wyndham joined him; and, soldier-like, they soon fell to discussing the event rather than the picture. Desmond—his head full of tactics and military history—held forth fluently quite in his old vein; while Paul—who heard scarce one word in six—nodded sagely at appropriate intervals.