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Own—no great thing in itself. You'll be sort of general handy man, and all odd jobs will be turned over to you—but you'll have a chance to work up. And you'll be in the centre of things. You can write—I realised that the moment I read The Woman Who Spanked the King. I know the editor of Roche’s and I found out who you were and where you lived. That’s really why I came down this spring—I wanted to get hold of you. You mustn’t waste your life here—it would be a crime. Oh, of course, I know New Moon is a dear, quaint, lovely spot—full of poetry and steeped in romance. It was just the place for you to spend your childhood in. But you must have a chance to grow and develop and be yourself. You must have the stimulus of association with great minds—the training that only a great city can give. Come with me. If you do, I promise you that in ten years’ time Emily Byrd Starr will be a name to conjure with among the magazines of America.”

Emily sat in a maze of bewilderment, too confused and dazzled to think clearly. She had never dreamed of this. It was as if Miss Royal had suddenly put into her hand a key to unlock the door into the world of all her dreams, and hopes, and imaginings. Beyond that door was all she had ever hoped for of success and fame. And yet— and yet—what faint, odd, resentment stirred at the back of all her whirling sensations? Was there a sting in Miss Royal’s calm assumption that if Emily did not go with her her name would forever remain unknown? Did the old dead-and-gone Murrays turn over in their graves at the whisper that one of their descendants could never succeed without the help and “pull” of a stranger? Or had Miss Royal’s manner been a shade too patronising? Whatever it was it kept Emily from figuratively flinging herself at Miss Royal’s feet.

“Oh, Miss Royal, that would be wonderful,” she faltered. “I’d love to go—but I’m afraid Aunt Elizabeth will never consent. She’ll say I’m too young.”

“How old are you?”