He, at least, was real in a shifting universe.  She began to rock herself, slowly, rhythmically, back and forth.  Then the New York negroes heard a shrill, sweet, wailing voice upraised in one of those speretuals in which Africa concentrates her ages of anguish into a half-articulate cry.  In it were the voices of their fathers long gone, come back from the rice-fields and the cane-brakes and the cotton-rows, voices so sweet and plaintive that they were haunted.

          “I we-ent out een de wilderness,
          En I fell upon—­mah—­knees,
          En I called upon—­mah—­Savior,
          Whut sh-all I do—­for—­save? 
          He replied: 
                Halleluian!
          Sinnuh, sing!
                Halleluian!
          Ma-ry, Mar-tha, halle—­
                Hallelu—­
                Halleluian!”

“Good Lord!” breathed the oldest boy, who was a high-school scholar.

“How weird and primitive!” said the daughter, who was to be a teacher.

But the father’s eyes narrowed, and the hair of his scalp prickled.  ’Way back yonder his mother had sung like that, and his heart leaped to it.  If he hadn’t been afraid of his educated and modern children, he would have wept.  Emma didn’t know that, of course.  She kissed the big cat, placed him carefully on the bed, and lay down beside him in the attitude of a corpse.  She was resigning herself to whatever should happen.

Peter, upon telephoning his uncle, had been advised to prowl about until noon, when they were to lunch together.  Wherefore he found himself upon the top of a bus, rolling about New York, seeing that of which he had read.  He didn’t see it as Nancy saw it; the city appeared to him as might some subtle, hard, and fascinatingly plain woman whose face had flashes of piercing and unforgetable beauty, beauty unexpected and unlike any other.  Unlike the beauty of the Carolina coast, say, which was a part of his consciousness, there was here something sinister and splendid.

He got off at the Metropolitan Museum.  He wished to see with his own eyes some of those pictures Claribel Spring had described to him, among them Fortuny’s “Spanish Lady.”  He stood for a dazzled interval before her, so disdainful, passionate, provocative, and so profoundly human.  When he moved away, he sighed.  He wasn’t wondering if he himself should ever meet and love such a lady; but rather when he should be able so to portray in a human face all the secrets of the body and of the soul.

At lunch his uncle, remarking his earnest face, said regretfully: 

“Oh, Peter, why couldn’t you be content to be a rich man and play the game according to Hoyle?  Art?  Of course!  You could afford to buy the best any of ’em could do, instead of trying to sell something you do yourself.  Art is a rich man’s recreation.  Artists exist in order that rich men may buy their wares.”