"Priscilla, you have helped me; you are a philosopher," cried Martine. In their hour at the Art Museum Martine recovered her spirits. She really knew something about paintings, and her favorites were chosen with discrimination. She lingered long and silently before those she loved best, and gave reasons for her preferences that would have done credit to a connoisseur. "I don't see how you ever learned so much," said Priscilla. "I feel like a perfect ignoramus before you when you talk of these things." "I did not mean to pose as an expert; you make me feel as if I had been too bumptious," replied Martine. "It's only because we've travelled so much that I know something of art. I have picked it up little by little; even last summer, in spite of our efforts to devote ourselves to history, I gained a lot from Mrs. Redmond about color values, and light and shade." "It's a great thing to know just what pictures to like," responded Priscilla. "I like some paintings more than others, but I never know why." "Neither do I, my dear child, when we come right down to facts. I know why I _ought_ to like certain things, but often those are the paintings that I like least. It's with pictures as with people, we admire many that we do not care for, and when we care very much, it's often because we really cannot help ourselves." "You and I are so different," mused Priscilla, "I often wonder why you like me." "Priscilla," cried Martine, "don't try to be a philosopher until you have left school." Yet hardly an hour before Martine had been praising Priscilla for her philosophy. CHAPTER X THE RECITAL For a few weeks after Angelina's _coup_ she had little further opportunity to show her skill. The successor of the eloping cook proved a capable, steady person, so in love with her new place that to Angelina's disgust she hardly ever even took the afternoon and evening off to which she was entitled. For it had always been Angelina's custom in the absence of the cook to entertain some of her own friends in Mrs. Stratford's dining-room, and to provide them with refreshments of her own concoction. For doing this she would have justified herself (had she thought she needed justification) by saying that no one had ever forbidden her to have company--and anyway, Miss Martine would never object. In this opinion she was quite correct. But, unfortunately, Mrs. Stratford, and not her daughter, was in charge, and the former, unlike Martine, did not find the Portuguese girl a perpetual source of amusement. Neither was Angelina as popular with the new cook as she had hoped to be. Her blandishments had never availed so little to get her what she wanted. "And why she's so anxious to get me out of the house, I can in no ways understand, Mrs. Stratford, and me as quiet as can be, and never saying nothing to her when she sits there reading them novels with the big pictures on the cover, or making faces over the pomes she's learning."