"Because you know that you can do something yourself," said Ludlow. "That is the only kind of people who can really know. The other sort of people can make clever guesses; they can't know." "And you believe that I can do something?" asked Cornelia, and a sudden revulsion of feeling sent the tears to her eyes. It was so sweet to be praised, believed in, after what she had been through. "But you haven't seen anything of mine except those things--in the Fair House." "Oh, yes, I have. I've seen the drawings you submitted at the Synthesis. I've just seen them. I may as well confess it: I asked to see them." "You did! And--and--well?" she fluttered back. "It will take hard work." "Oh, I know that!" "And it will take time." "Yes, that is the worst of it. I don't see how I can give the time." "Why?" he asked. "Oh, because--I can't very well be away from home." She colored as she said this, for she could have been away from home well enough if she had the money. "I thought I would come and try it for one winter." He said lightly, "Perhaps you'll get so much interested that you'll find you can take more time." "I don't know," she answered. "Well, then, you must get in all the work you can this winter. Block hands are well enough, but they're not the whole of art nor the whole preparation for it." "Oh, I've joined the sketch class," she said. "Yes, that's well enough, too," he assented. "But I want you to come and paint with me," he suddenly added. "You? Me?" she gasped. "Yes," he returned. "I'll tell you what I mean. I've been asked to paint a lady. She'll have to come to my place, and I want you to come with her, and see what you can do, too. I hope it doesn't seem too extraordinary?" he broke off, at sight of the color in her face. "Oh, no," said Cornelia. She wondered what Charmian would say if she knew this; she wondered what the Synthesis would say; the Synthesis held Mr. Ludlow in only less honor than the regular Synthesis instructors, and Mr. Ludlow had asked her to come and paint with him! She took shelter in the belief that Mrs. Burton must have put him up to it, somehow, but she ought to say something grateful, or at least something. She found herself stupidly and aimlessly asking, "Is it Mrs. Westley?" as if that had anything to do with the matter. "No; I don't see why I didn't tell you at once," said Ludlow. "It's your friend, Miss Maybough." Cornelia relieved her nerves with a laugh. "I wonder how she ever kept from telling it." "Perhaps she didn't know. I've only just got a letter from her mother, asking me to paint her, and I haven't decided yet that I shall do it." She thought that he wanted her to ask him why, and she asked, "What are you waiting for?" "For two reasons. Do you want the real reason first?" he asked, smiling at her. She laughed. "No, the unreal one!"