Existence was a mystery, but these souls who set themselves to quiet tasks of beauty had caught something of which he was dimly conscious.

Life had touched them with a vision, their hearts and souls were attuned to sweet harmonies of which the common world knew nothing.

Sometimes, when he was weary after a strenuous day, he would enter--late in the night--his now silent gallery, and turning on the lights so that the whole sweet room stood revealed, he would seat himself before some treasure, reflecting on the nature, the mood, the time, and the man that had produced it.
Sometimes it would be one of Rembrandt's melancholy heads--the sad "Portrait of a Rabbi"-- or the sweet introspection of a Rousseau stream.
A solemn Dutch housewife, rendered with the bold fidelity and resonant enameled surfaces of a Hals or the cold elegance of an Ingres, commanded his utmost enthusiasm.

So he would sit and wonder at the vision and skill of the original dreamer, exclaiming at times: "A marvel! A marvel!" At the same time, so far as Aileen was concerned things were obviously shaping up for additional changes.

She was in that peculiar state which has befallen many a woman--trying to substitute a lesser ideal for a greater, and finding that the effort is useless or nearly so.