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“I know you will be vexed with me, Miss Lauder, but I do wish you would give up this stage idea. I don’t like it at all, though I’ve no right to say so.”

Alice wished very much to say something pleasant at parting, but this was a little too much to ask. She considered for a moment or two what she could say.

“Don’t think me obstinate. I know you think differently about these things, but I cannot help it—I must go on. I don’t talk much about art, like some people, and I’ve always approached it from the practical side, which makes a difference; but I do love it all the same. What should I do without it? It’s my living, in every sense—I can’t give it up.”

“But you will marry some day, perhaps.”

“Ah, perhaps; but sufficient to the day is the evil thereof.”

“Then do you think that your husband will like you to appear in public for money? Five shillings box seats, gallery eighteenpence, and that sort of thing! I hope not.”

“As far as that goes,” said Alice, with much dignity, raising her head and showing a spark of fire in her eyes, “I have acted in public—and for money—already. My father used to go round as a pianist sometimes to a travelling