“Why, Alice, you are quite a painter!” cried I, in a little surprise. “No, indeed--I wish I were,” said Alice. “I wonder why it is that some people can _do_ things, and some people, with all the will in the world, can only admire them when they’re done, and think--surely it’s my own fault--surely if I had tried I could have done as well! I suppose it’s one of the common troubles of women. I am sure I have looked at a picture, or read a book many a time, with the feeling that all that was in my heart if I could only have got it out. You smile, Mrs. Crofton--perhaps it’s very absurd--I daresay a woman ought to be very thankful when she can understand books, and has enough to live on without needing to work,” added this feminine misanthrope with a certain pang of natural spite and malice in her voice. Spite and malice! I venture to use such ugly words, because it was my dear Alice, the purest, tenderest, and most lovable of women, who spoke. “There are a great many people in this world who think it a great happiness to have enough to live on,” said I, besides women. “I don’t know if Maurice has your ambition, Alice--but, at least he’s a man, and has no special disadvantages; yet, begging your pardons, young ladies, I think Alice is good for something more than _he_ is, as the world stands.” “Ah, but then Maurice, you know, Mrs. Crofton--Maurice has doubts,” said Clara, with a slight pique at my boldness. “Poor Maurice! he says he must follow out his inquiries wherever they lead him, and however sad the issue may be. It is very dreadful--he may not be able to believe in anything before he is done--but then, he must not trifle with his conscience. And with such very serious things to trouble him, it is too bad he should be misunderstood.” “Don’t, Clara! hush!” whispered Alice, looking a little ashamed of this argument. “But why should I hush? Hugh says just the same as Mrs. Crofton--it’s very provoking--but these active people do not take into consideration the troubles of a thoughtful mind, Maurice says.” “That is very likely,” said I, with a little complacency--“but remember this is all a digression--Alice, will you come to London or will you not?” Alice got up and made me a very pretty curtsey. “No, please, Mrs. Crofton, I will not,” said that very unmanageable young lady. She looked so provokingly pretty, piquant, and attractive at the moment that I longed to punish her. And Bertie was coming home! and her mind was irretrievably prejudiced against him; it was almost too much for human patience--but to be sure, when a woman is seven-and-twenty, she has some sort of right to know her own mind.