and the gallery was his own private
venture--his gymnasium in culture! She smiled a little. Over there, a
great canvas had been taken down and carted off to make room for the
little Monticelli in its place. He was learning--yes! But she could not
bring guests to the gallery when they came to Idlewood for the day. If
he would only let a connoisseur go through the place and pick out
the best ones--the gallery was not so bad! She looked about her with
curious, tolerant smile.

The boy's gaze followed hers. He had not been in this big room, with the
high-reaching skylight, and the vari-coloured pictures and grey
walls. His dark eyes went everywhere--and flashed smiles and brought
a touch-stone to the place. Eyes trained to the Acropolis were on the
pictures; and the temples of the gods spoke in swift words or laughed
out in quick surprise.

The mistress of the house followed him, with amused step. If Phil could
only hear it! She must manage somehow--Phil was too shrewd and practical
not to see how true the boy was--and how keen! That great Thing--over
the fireplace--Chicago on her throne, with the nations prostrate before
her--how the boy wondered and chuckled--and questioned her--and brought
the colour to her face!... Philip had stood before the picture by the
hour--entranced; the man who painted it had made a key to go with it,
and Philip Harris knew the meaning of every line and figure--and he
gloried and wallowed in it. "That is a picture with some sense in it!"
was his proudest word, standing before it and waving his hand at the
vision on her throne. She was a lovely lady--a little like his wife,
Philip Harris thought. Perhaps the artist had not been unaware of this.
Certainly Mrs. Philip Harris knew it, and loathed the Thing. The boy's
words were like music to her soul, under the skylight with the rain
dripping softly down. She had thought of covering the Thing up--a velvet
curtain, perhaps. But she had not quite dared yet.... Across the room
another picture was covered by a curtain--the velvet folds sweeping
straight in front of it, and covering it from top to bottom. Only the
rim of the gilt frame that reached to the ceiling, glimmered about the
blue folds of the curtain. The boy's eyes had rested on the curtained
picture as they passed before it, but Mrs. Philip Harris had not turned
her head. She felt the boy's eyes now--they had wandered to it again,
and he stood with half-parted lips, as if something behind the