Laura, however, was none the worse off. She could read and write, had the run of two houses in the matter of books, and Justin—never again so divinely discerning—Justin had given her a paint-box. Thus equipped, she was left to potter at her own pace along the road to knowledge of those inner and outer worlds in which, for the next fifty years or so, she was to stage her eternal comedy of existence. And she enjoyed herself. At ten—twelve—fourteen—she enjoyed herself, æsthetically at least, as keenly and painfully as at any later period, blissfully absorbed in words and colours and sounds, in discovering that the sky is awfully blue and the earth so green, so green; but that if she said big words to herself from Gran’papa’s dictionary, ‘azure,’ ‘translucent,’ ‘emerald,’ ‘lapis-lazuli,’ sky and earth would deepen and glow till she was dazzled, and that, although she could not get what she saw on to paper, juicy as Winsor and Newtons were, at least she could always try. And there the sable paint-brush was certainly a help, though expensive! And though in these, as in all her adventures, she was unescorted, she was not lonely. She was always aware that there were guiding hands to right and left of her if she chose to stretch out her own. Hands, indeed, that were inclined to tug in opposite directions, and so, perhaps, held her the steadier between extreme and extreme; for an intelligent young man convinced that he understands everything, and a wise old one, still more sure that he knows nothing, are no bad teachers for an imaginative child, who worships the one and honours the others. Justin, because she saw less of him; because he was young; because he made her laugh; because he forgot her for months and then remembered her again; because he let her play in his room and learn her geography from his stamp album, and put her in charge, in his absence, of his innumerable collections; because he had white teeth and delightful crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he put back his head and laughed at her; because, in short, he was God—Justin, naturally, influenced her development more than old Mr. Valentine, though he, in his cold way, was less unconscious of responsibility than Aunt Adela would have you believe. Yet the amazing, amusing contrast in the two men’s attitudes to life and Books (the choice of capital is Laura’s) developed in her, all unconsciously, a sense of humour, which is a sense of proportion, that never withered, though she is to starve it ruthlessly in the years that are labelled discreet.