“I wonder if musty philosophers, like Socrates and Aristotle, and old-fashioned poets, like Shakespeare and Milton, are not safer company for him to keep than some of the more modern friends you have?” said Rose, remembering Jamie's hints about wild oats, for she could be a little sharp sometimes and had not lectured “the boys” for so long it seemed unusually pleasant. But Charlie changed the subject skillfully by exclaiming with an anxious expression: “I do believe you are going to be like Aunt Jane, for that's just the way she comes down on me whenever she gets the chance! Don't take her for a model, I beg she is a good woman but a mighty disagreeable one in my humble opinion.” The fear of being disagreeable is a great bugbear to a girl, as this artful young man well knew, and Rose fell into the trap at once, for Aunt Jane was far from being her model, though she could not help respecting her worth. “Have you given up your painting?” she asked rather abruptly, turning to a gilded Fra Angelico angel which leaned in the sofa corner. “Sweetest face I ever saw, and very like you about the eyes, isn't it?” said Charlie, who seemed to have a Yankee trick of replying to one question with another. “I want an answer, not a compliment,” and Rose tried to look severe as she put away the picture more quickly than she had taken it up. “Have I given up painting? Oh, no! I daub a little in oils, slop a little in watercolors, sketch now and then, and poke about the studios when the artistic fit comes on.” “How is the music?” “More flourishing. I don't practice much, but sing a good deal in company. Set up a guitar last summer and went troubadouring round in great style. The girls like it, and it's jolly among the fellows.” “Are you studying anything?” “Well, I have some lawbooks on my table good, big, wise-looking chaps and I take a turn at them semioccasionally when pleasure palls or parents chide. But I doubt if I do more than learn what 'a allybi' is this year,” and a sly laugh in Charlie's eye suggested that he sometimes availed himself of this bit of legal knowledge. “What do you do then?” “Fair catechist, I enjoy myself. Private theatricals have been the rage of late, and I have won such laurels that I seriously think of adopting the stage as my profession.” “Really!” cried Rose, alarmed. “Why not? If I must go to work, isn't that as good as anything?” “Not without more talent than I think you possess. With genius one can do anything without it one had better let the stage alone.” “There's a quencher for the 'star of the goodlie companie' to which I belong. Mac hasn't a ray of genius for anything, yet you admire him for trying to be an M.D.,” cried Charlie, rather nettled at her words. “It is respectable, at all events, and I'd rather be a second-rate doctor than a second-rate actor. But I know you don't mean it, and only say so to frighten me.”