Stanwell therefore thought it unlikely that his
portrait of Mrs. Millington would be seen by Kate, who was not given
to independent explorations in the field of art; but one day, on
entering the exhibition--which he had hitherto rather nervously
shunned--he saw the Arrans at the end of the gallery in which the
portrait hung. They were not looking at it, they were moving away
from it, and to Stanwell's quickened perceptions their attitude
seemed almost that of flight. For a moment he thought of flying too;
then a desperate resolve nerved him to meet them, and stemming the
crowd, he made a circuit which brought him face to face with their
retreat.
The room in which they met was momentarily empty, and there was
nothing to intervene between the shock of their inter-changed
glances. Caspar was flushed and bristling: his little body quivered
like a machine from which the steam has just been turned off. Kate
lifted a stricken glance. Stanwell read in it the reflexion of her
brother's tirade, but she held out her hand in silence.
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