"Yes, Sir Godfrey gave it to me. He picked it out of his collection in the smoking-room. I couldn't help admiring them. You know how I love brass! but I never dreamt of his doing such a thing. Mother was cross. It's always a bone of contention between us. I say that farmhouse kitchens are always renowned for their pewter, their copper and their brass, and that we ought to have some. We have a few pieces hidden away in the attics. Mother won't allow me to bring them down. She says they bring and make work, and she's not going to have to clean useless ornaments. "I would willingly rise half an hour earlier or go to bed half an hour later, to keep them bright and shining; but it's no good. They're tabooed. So that's that!" "Phemie would like to turn this into an art studio if she could," Dick said with a little chuckle. "The Mother doesn't see it, and I honestly don't think it would work." "I should work much the better for having a few beautiful things to look at," said Phemie. "I should like a picture or two on the walls, but those again are banned by Mother." "Well, you do as you like in your own room," said Adrienne; "for I've seen it, and that is where you want beauty most." "I'm rather with the Mother that a kitchen ought to be a kitchen," said Dick; "but then I'm only a male, and have no artistic tendencies." "You lose a lot of pleasure," said Phemie, looking at her brother with thoughtful eyes. "I don't go into raptures over a baby calf as you do, or see pictures in rotten barn-doors and decaying roofs; but I do take pleasure in the earth, and all that comes out of it, barring the weeds!" "Dick and Mother have things in common," said Phemie; then she tossed up her chin, and a light came into her eyes, making her look positively handsome; "and if my father had lived, he and I would have understood each other. As it is, I stand alone with my father's spirit in me, which cannot be beaten even if it is suppressed." There was a moment's silence. Her words were true. Her father had loved art and was full of it to his fingers' tips, though he had never made a name for himself. He had died at an early age, leaving only half-finished, undeveloped paintings, and bits of sculpture behind him. And his widow having known penury and want, and being left almost penniless, felt bitterly towards the art that had proved so disastrous to her husband. Adrienne changed the conversation. She felt that the topic was difficult, if not dangerous, so she began telling them of her invitation to her aunt. Phemie was full of interest at once. "But you will go to her when your uncle is better? Oh, you must. How delightful! An old country Château. It sounds so romantic. I should love to see the country life in France. And she is your aunt, isn't she? Oh, I wish, I wish I were in your shoes."