“It can go hang,” said Clementina. She laughed at his look of horror. “Art for the polygamous man and the celibate woman. A man can throw his soul into his pictures and also attend to his wife and family. That’s out of a woman’s power. She must choose between her art on the one side, and husband and children on the other—I’m telling you this, _mon petit_, for your education. I’ve chosen husband and children as any woman with blood in her veins would choose. It’s the women without blood that choose art—don’t make any mistake about it. Now and then one of ’em chooses the other—and, as she doesn’t get any children and doesn’t know what the deuce to do with a husband, falls back on her art again and gives the poor devil soup with camel-hair brushes floating about it and a painting-rag for a napkin, and then there are ructions, and she goes among her weary pals and says that their sex is misunderstood and down-trodden, and they must clamour for their rights. Bosh!” She sniffed in her old way. Tommy insisted. “But you’re a born painter, Clementina. A great painter. It means such a tremendous sacrifice.” “You young men of the present day make me tired!” she exclaimed. “You all seem to think that larks ought to fall ready roasted into your mouth. There’s not a blessed thing in this world worth having without sacrifice. The big people, the people that have the big things in life are those that have paid or are prepared to pay the big price for them.” “I don’t see why you should round on me like that,” said Tommy. “After all, a little while ago I made no bones about sacrificing the loaves and fishes for the sake of my art—I don’t want to brag—but _fiat justitia_ at any rate.” “I know what you did,” said Clementina, mollified, “and if you hadn’t done it, I shouldn’t be talking like this to you. And you’re a painter and my very dear Tommy, and you can understand—Of course, I’ll go on painting—I’ve got it in my blood. I could no more do without a paint brush handy than a tooth brush. But it’s going to be secondary. I’ll be the gifted amateur. Clementina Wing, painter of portraits to the nobility, gentry, mayoralty, and pork-butchery of Great Britain and Ireland is dead. You can paraphrase the epitaph. ‘Here lies Clementina Wing, the married woman.’ And, Tommy, my dear,” she added in a softer voice, “You can add to it; ‘_Sic itur ad astra_.’” “I do hope you’ll be jolly happy,” said Tommy. On their way back it happened that the postman met them with the household budget. She took the letters into the hall and sorted them. Tommy went off with his precious epistle from Etta. Huckaby appeared in quest of his chief’s correspondence, and, seeing her alone, congratulated her on her approaching marriage. She thanked him and held out a letter addressed to him from Dinard. “I’ve been dealing in quotations lately,” she said. “And I find I’ve got one for you. ‘Go thou and do likewise.’” Huckaby sighed and laughed. “One of these days, perhaps,” said he.