“I don’t know.” She was honestly puzzled. “I’m not bad, I know. But you—you imagine a lot.” And then, consolingly, “I shouldn’t worry. You just see—in ten years you’ll be at the top. I’m sure of it. But I shall fizzle out. I’m bored with it already—this medium, anyhow. Oh, don’t you see?” She followed up her thoughts as, exploring, one follows strange footfalls in the dark of a passage—“Don’t you feel what the difference is? You—a man—a man has got to put himself into only one thing, painting or music or whatever it is. But a girl can put herself into whatever happens along. He has a gift for painting. She has just a gift. Oh, don’t you see? Isn’t it interesting? I never thought of it before. That’s the difference between men and women. You’re born craftsmen; but we—it’s not the craft we care about. It’s just something in us—the religion, as you say—that’s got to get out somewhere—anywhere. We could be just as religious over cooking a dinner.” Oliver writhed. “Oh, but we could. Look here—I’m doing this for my grandfather. He’s never been able to afford to come to Italy. So it’s got to be good—to please him. If I did it like yours, to be sold, without knowing to whom it was going—well, I couldn’t do it. It wouldn’t be worth doing for its own sake. I shouldn’t enjoy it. You can’t understand that, can you? That’s because you’re an artist and I’m not, and never shall be, religion or no religion.” Her brilliant face was very close to his as she sat and talked to him over her shoulder: she always lit up like a little Christmas tree when she was excited. He thought, with a touch of heady self-congratulation, that she had never talked to him like this before (forgetting how little chance he usually gave her). He did not realize how impersonal were her speculations, he marvelled merely that she should be so charming to him. “There must be some reason!” cried his eager vanity. “Religion?” He hesitated, smiling. “I believe I know a better word.” She questioned him with a movement of her head. “Love.” He wondered how she would take it. “Why—” she began doubtfully, “why, of course——” And then, “Oh, Oliver, I believe you’re perfectly right!” She laughed abstractedly, fingering her chalks. The suggestion had taken her fancy. It cleared up a hundred-and-one points for her. It explained so many failures and successes. Why, of course.... it was not the brains ... it was the being fond of people that counted, that made you able to do things, to look pretty, to be tidy, and paint, and get on with irritating people, like Oliver and Aunt Adela ... because you did it to please some one you were fond of.... It must be ghastly not to be fond of any one ... one would miss such a lot.... Oliver, for instance, was quite decent really, when you got to know him ... but she would never have bothered if it hadn’t been to please Justin ... a shame.... Poor Oliver!... And so ended, a little guiltily, by smiling up at him. And then, you know, he kissed her.