He worried at her, always before Justin, to tell him her plans and when she said she had none, explained to her with much picturesque detail exactly what she ought to be doing for the next five years. The only effect of his eloquence upon Laura was to intensify that inexplicable sensation of panic that stole over her at the thought of overleaping the gulf that daily yawned wider between her and her art; but Justin seems to have listened with some respect. At any rate, he had taken to arranging sketching expeditions for them. The plunge once taken, Laura had been too weak to refuse. She had, after all, her paints, an elbow length down her trunk. She had never been so torn in her life as she now was between this definite creative instinct of hers and the other stronger instinct that forbade it, the stronger instinct that she did not remotely understand. They would all drive out together to some nook of the hills, and she and Oliver would be left to their devices while Mrs. Cloud and Justin explored the village and picked up curios and ordered lunch and came back at last to see and criticize what they had done. One day Justin startled her. He took her aside. “I say, Laura,” he began solemnly and she racked her brains to remember if she had done anything wrong. “I say you know—if you want to go back to Paris—to train—if you feel you’ve got it in you——” A future opened map-like in her mind, gorgeous, triumphant, like a bird’s-eye view of an oriental city, hers, who knew, for the conquering. And again that other, unknown instinct was a mist that blotted it out. Through her thoughts she heard him— “Of course I’m no judge, but Oliver says—I’ve been talking to Oliver—and you know, Laura, you’ve only got to tell me——” (Mrs. Cloud would have liked to be there just then to listen to Justin and love him. Any woman, Laura herself, might have loved Justin then, he was so portentous and fatherly) “—because, you know, Laura, if there’s any difficulty—your grandfather—if you’re worried about ways and means—you know what I mean——” She flushed. “Well, you needn’t, you know. It could be arranged. I—Mother—Mother could fix it up for you.”