And what did Joan expect him to do in reply to these taunts from her friend, anyway? And why didn’t Joan laugh out loud, instead of smiling that way? But it was Ariel who kept the drama melodramatic. She turned on Joan.
“Why do you let your friends misunderstand each other so?” she cried. “Why don’t you stop being amused and set Mr. Schwankovsky straight about Hugh? Hugh liked ‘Noon’ the best of all the pictures Father had done when he was in Bermuda. And he _bought_ it. He named his own price, and _paid_ it. _One thousand dollars._ Hugh had four thousand dollars a year to spend then. Father knew that. And Father thought it splendid that a man would spend one fourth of his income on a picture. But no one goes after beauty for himself or wants it that way. It’s for his friends as much as himself. Hugh only put ‘Noon’ in the attic because it reminded him that he couldn’t share it or anything else that was real to him with you, Mrs. Nevin. No one wants to be reminded of things like that about any one he loves. Love is more important than art, isn’t it!”
Joan assumed the appearance of looking through Ariel as through clear glass—something that might not be there at all—but the amusement on her lips and in her eyes turned genuine. She spoke only to Schwankovsky and as if both Hugh and Ariel had suddenly vanished. “I’m wild to see this picture, now that you tell me of it, Michael. And don’t be cut up about finding it in the grandmother’s apartment. If it weren’t rather fine she wouldn’t let it remain an instant. She has taste. Let’s go up this minute. I’m thrilled. Ariel has been misinformed, you can see.”
Hugh stopped them. “I’ll have to get Grandam’s permission, of course. Joan knows she’s rather strong on etiquette, and that one has to be announced.”
But Ariel again asserted herself: “Grandam said I might take Mr. Schwankovsky up. She knew he’d want to see ‘Noon.’ And then, if she can have Mrs. Nevin too, I’ll come down and say so.”
When Hugh and Joan were left alone he said, by way of saying something in the face of her disconcerting, aloof silence, “Grandam is devoted to Ariel. She’d let her do anything she asked, I think.”
“She’s dressed her up, I notice. Quite touching of your grandmother to be so interested, don’t you think? I do. She’s playing a game with Ariel, I imagine. Recreating a raw personality. Even a frock like that can’t work miracles though, and Grandam must know it in her heart. But life must be getting rather dull for her.”