At the National Gallery


It was with considerable difficulty and self-restraint that Cecil
succeeded in waiting till the next day to see Mrs Raymond after his
uncle's party. He was of an age and of a temperament that made his love
affairs seem to him supremely urgent and of more importance than
anything else in his life.

He called on Mrs Raymond at eleven in the morning on the pretext of
having something important to tell her. He found her sitting at her
writing-table in a kind of red kimono. Her hair was brushed straight off
her forehead, her eyes were sly and bright, and she looked more Japanese
than ever.

Cecil told her what Hyacinth had said to him.

'Now, you see, I _can't_ go on making up to her any more. She doesn't
care a straw about me, and she sees through it, of course. I've done
what you asked me. Won't you be nice to me now?'

'Certainly not! She's quite devoted to you. Telling you not to go and
see her again! I never heard of anything so encouraging in my life. Now,
Cecil,' she spoke seriously, 'that girl is a rare treasure. It's not
only that she's a perfect beauty, but I read her soul yesterday. She has
a beautiful nature, and she's in love with you. You don't appreciate
her. If you take what she said literally, you're much stupider than I
gave you credit for being. I--I simply shan't see you again till you've
made it up. When you know her better you _must_ care for her. Besides, I