“When once the barriers of prejudice are broken down!” echoed she. “But that will be never. You don’t recognize how strong they are! Why, look at my mother, for instance; she’s more particular about little things, prejudices and that sort of thing, than about important ones. And she’s not alone, she’s one of a type, the most common type. She would rather see her daughters dead, I’m quite sure, than engaged in any occupation which she’s been accustomed to think unwomanly.” “But she belongs to the last generation. We go on enlarging our ideas. You, for instance, don’t agree with her, I can see.” “Not in everything, certainly; though I agree with her enough to sympathize with her, and to wish that the world were just as she sees it, with plenty of work for all, and work of the pleasantest kind--work that one could engage in without loss of dignity, and with credit to oneself.” “There’s plenty of such work to be found now. What about the dignity of labor?” “All very well in theory, but quite a mistake in practice. At any rate, there’s nothing dignified about any calling which I, for example, could find to follow. Now poor mamma thinks it’s all right, that one has only to look about to find ways of utilizing what she calls one’s talents, and to make heaps of money by them.” “Perhaps she’s right after all. I’m sure you wouldn’t be long in finding an opening for yours, if you wanted one.” “What makes you say that? At least I know. Of course, it’s the sort of thing a man must say to a woman. But, as a matter of stern fact, I haven’t any talents, and for a woman without to look for remunerative and dignified labor is just the most appalling waste of time imaginable.” “I’m quite sure you have talents, only perhaps you don’t recognize them yourself yet.” “What makes you speak so certainly, when I tell you I have not?” Gerard hesitated. “I’m not quite sure whether I dare tell why. The thing I should have to say, if I were to tell the truth, is the sort of thing some ladies as young as you don’t care to hear.” He looked at her with shy interest, and she, alert and inquisitive, insisted upon his explaining. “Whether I like to hear it or not, I must know what you mean,” she said, with charming imperiousness. “Well, then, Miss Davison, you look--may I say it?--‘brainy.’” She nodded, smiling. “I’ve been told that before, but the look is deceptive. I’m only just not quite an idiot. I can’t do anything--except one thing that I don’t think I’ll own to,” she added, with a laugh. “Let me put you through a short catechism. Can’t you play?--the piano, I mean.” “Not even well enough to get through the accompaniment of a song at sight, or to play an easy piece that I haven’t diligently practiced till the family is tired to death of it.” “Can’t you paint?” “Oh, yes, I can copy drawing-master’s pictures, which are like nothing in heaven or earth or the water under the earth.” “You can sing, I feel sure.”