“Not John anything,” she replied, shocked at my ignorance. “It’s his last name, but no one ever calls him anything else—John the artist: much the strongest painter we’ve got. Vera asked him to come and see my things, and he came and he likes them. He says I ought to make a real name if I study properly and go to a life class and devote myself to drawing for a while. It’s my drawing that’s weak, he says.” It was then that Rose suddenly asked, after a brief silence, “How much money have I got?” I told her that she had no money at all, unless her father chose to give her any. He reimbursed me more or less for what she cost me, and her school accounts and so forth had gone to him. It was all very irregular; of course she ought to have an allowance by this time. She was eighteen. Her face lost its radiance. “Must I ask him?” she said. “It depends on what you want it for,” I answered. “I want to live in Chelsea,” she said, “and really learn to paint.” “O!” I said. “If it had been for anything else I might have been able to contribute, but I can’t for that. That is too drastic. You must ask your father. Besides,” I said, “I could hardly bring myself to finance a scheme which leaves me so high and dry.” “Poor Dombeen!” she said. “But you’d soon get used to being alone. And I’d come down often for the week-end. As a maffact, you’d hardly miss me.” “Train up a child and away she goes,” I quoted. “But you wouldn’t have me not be independent?” she asked. “No,” I said. “Everything is all right: just as it should be. An old man must expect to lose a young girl just when she is most companionable. But you must concede him a little melancholy. After all, it is a compliment to you, so concede it purely in that light. It’s as proper for me to regret your going as for you to want to go.” “You dear old thing!” she said. “I hate to leave you, but what should one do? If you absolutely needed me, of course . . . but you don’t. You’re strong, you go about, you have your prints and your gardening.” “And even if I hadn’t,” I said, “I should not allow you to stay. If I am to collapse, it shall not be an artist on the threshold of life with a passion to express herself in oils who shall bring my beef-tea. That would be too unfair. But you must understand that nothing can be done until your father consents.” “I’ll write to him to-night,” she said. “Unless you will?” “No,” I replied firmly. “I’ll go a long way to help you, but I won’t sign my own death warrant. No seaman beseeches to be marooned.” * * * * * Eustace replied that he thought he might be willing, but it would be well to discuss the matter properly. Would she stay with him for a few days and bring some of her work with her. “How can I show it to him?” she asked. “You must,” I said. “After all, he is your father.” “But it’s so—so—personal,” she said. * * * * *