"I've not seen it yet," Peter said rather timidly. "It sounds very nice."

Miss Barnett gave him a rather contemptuous look through her pince-nez
and turned to Hilary.

"Lor!" whispered Mrs. Johnson to Peter. "They do get so excited about
pictures. Just like that they go on all day, squabblin' and peckin' each
other. Always at Rhoder they are too, tellin' her she must think this and
mustn't think that, till the poor gel don't know if she's on her head or
her heels. She don't like _me_ to interfere, or it's all I can do
sometimes not to put in my word and say, 'You stick to it, Rhoder my
dear; you stand up to 'em and your mother'll back you.' But Rhoder don't
like that. 'Mother,' she says, quite sharp, 'Mother, you don't know a
thing about Art, and they do. You let be, and don't put me to shame
before my friends.' That's what she'd like to say, anyhow, if she's too
good a gel to say it. Rhoder's ashamed of my ignorance, that's what it
is." This was a furtive whisper, for Peter's ear alone. Having thus
unburdened herself Mrs. Johnson cleared her throat noisily and said very
loud, "An' what do you think of St. Mark's?" That was a sensible and
intelligent question, and she hoped Rhoda heard.

Peter said he thought it was very nice. That Rhoda certainly heard, and
she looked at him with a curious expression, in which hope predominated.
Was this brother of the Margerisons another fool, worse than her? Would
he perhaps make her folly shine almost like wisdom by comparison? She
exchanged a glance with Vyvian; it was extraordinarily sweet to be able
to do that; so many glances had been exchanged àpropos of _her_ remarks
between Vyvian and Miss Barnett. But here was a young man who thought St.
Mark's was very nice. "The dear Duomo!" Miss Barnett murmured, protecting