Barnes. His books, perhaps his richest treasures, remained. He ran over the titles. They were good books; they had been his friends, but he knew that he would never send for them, never want them again. From the lot he selected just two which, for certain reasons, he proposed to keep by him. The Chevalier of Pensieri-Vani and Bel-Ami. The others he would offer to Lennie Colman. There was, he felt, a certain ironic fitness in these various distributions.
A day or so later, meeting Clara on the street, he asked her if she wanted the photographs.
Yes, she assented indifferently, I'd like to have them. Let's get them now, she went on with more enthusiasm.
So, once again, for the last time, they ascended the steps in the barn together.
When are you going away, Gareth? she asked, while he was making a neat packet of the pictures.
Saturday, he replied.
We shall meet in Chicago, she asseverated. You know I am going a little later.
That will be dandy, was his absent-minded reply.
You know, Gareth, I wouldn't want to see many people from this old town. What do they know about art here? But you are different. You understand. Some day when I am a great singer you will be proud you knew me, Gareth.
He wondered if this rather unattractive girl with a commonplace mind ever would be a great singer.
