Then they heard her voice again in the hall.
'No—no—you must come this evening. Bring Archie with you. I will play, and he shall listen. You shall both listen. And then great thoughts will come to you.'
'Always great thoughts—great thoughts—great pictures,' Zoe murmured. 'And we are so infinitely little. Brother worm, shall we crawl into some hole and hide ourselves?'
Then the door opened, and Armorel herself appeared, fresh and rosy in spite of the cold wind.
'My dear child,' said Zoe softly, looking up from her cushions, 'come in and sit down. You must be perishing with the east wind. Do sit down and be comfortable. You met Mr. Feilding last night, I believe.'
The visitor remained for a quarter of an hour. Armorel had been to see a certain picture in the National Gallery. He talked of pictures just as, the night before, he had talked of music: that is to say, as one who knows all the facts about the painters and their works and their schools: their merits and their defects. He knew and could talk fluently the language of the Art Critic, just as he knew and could talk the language of the Musical Critic. Armorel listened. Now and then she made a remark. But her manner lacked the reverence with which most maidens listened to this thrice-gifted darling of the Muses. She actually seemed not to care very much what he said.
Zoe, for her part, lay back in her cushions in silence.
'How do you like him?' she asked, when their visitor left them.
'I don't know; I haven't thought about him. He talks too much, I think. And he talks as if he was teaching.'
'No one has a better right to talk with authority.'