“But what is she going to do with it? I would never consent to a child of mine singing in public, with her name in newspapers, and on placards and all that! It would break my heart.” “Still you needn’t think of the future yet, need you? She has years of training before her.” “But if she’s not going to do anything with it, what a waste of money!” exclaimed Mrs. Carfax, tragically. “I think it’s much better for girls not to have gifts,” she added. Miss Page was rather disposed to consider that her guest had uttered a great truth. Her reply however, was non-committal. “Perhaps,” she said. “But if they _do_ possess them don’t you agree with Mr. Carfax that it’s right to cultivate them? A gift of any sort is such a worrying thing,” she added persuasively. “And if it’s allowed to rust, it chiefly worries its possessor. Now that she’s doing what she was born to do, Sylvia will be contented. I _don’t_ think it’s just because she’s getting her own way that she’s happy. It’s deeper than that. She’s satisfied because she’s fulfilling a need of her nature for which she’s no more responsible than she is for the colour of her very pretty eyes.” Anne’s voice was so gentle, her smile so irresistible, that Mrs. Carfax was visibly softened. “At any rate I’m glad it’s not art she’s got a taste for,” she conceded. To Mrs. Carfax, painting, to the exclusion of all the other activities of the Muses, was art, as Miss Page understood. “You wouldn’t like her to paint?” “Oh landscapes and flowers, and that sort of thing is all right. A very nice amusement. I’ve got lots of water-colour sketches I did as a girl, and hand-painted screens, and sofa cushions too. But nowadays art is such a shocking thing, isn’t it? I hear that Susie Villiers draws from the nude, as they call it. To me, it’s a perfectly disgusting idea. And they draw _men_, as well as women. Imagine a young girl having the boldness to draw a man without his clothes!” “Do have some of this toast before it gets cold,” urged Anne. “Oh! while I think of it I wish you would tell me how to make that delicious shortbread I tasted the last time I came to you.” Mrs. Carfax, adroitly switched off the topic of art as she understood it, was on firm ground now that culinary operations held the conversational field. She gave minute directions to which her friend listened with flattering attention. “I must write that down before I forget it,” said Anne, opening a bureau to take from it her book of recipes.