She laughed.
“Nor fame.” Her mind returned to the loadstar.
“Oh, fame!” he exclaimed, with a touch of impatience, and he used the word that had possessed her all day. “There is no reality in that. Men are not loved for it.”
She set down her cup quickly. He was looking at the water-colour.
“Have you been to the Metropolitan Museum lately?” he asked.
“The Metropolitan Museum?” she repeated in bewilderment.
“That would be one of the temptations of New York for me,” he said. “I was there for half an hour this afternoon before I presented myself at your door as a suspicious character. There is a picture there, by Coffin, called 'The Rain,' I believe. I am very fond of it. And looking at it on such a winter's day as this brings back the summer. The squall coming, and the sound of it in the trees, and the very smell of the wet meadow-grass in the wind. Do you know it?”
“No,” replied Honora, and she was suddenly filled with shame at the thought that she had never been in the Museum. “I didn't know you were so fond of pictures.”
“I am beginning to be a rival of Mr. Dwyer,” he declared. “I've bought four—although I haven't built my gallery. When you come to St. Louis I'll show them to you—and let us hope it will be soon.”
For some time after she had heard the street door close behind him Honora remained where she was, staring into the fire, and then she crossed the room to a reading lamp, and turned it up.