“I have no typewriter; did have last winter, but I played in hard luck and left it at ‘uncle’s.’—I scribble almost as swiftly and so it’s of no consequence,” she added contentedly. “Just last week I had an idea and I think it is a real idea, Thurley—as you are to sing the title rôle I’ll tell it to you. Instead of having THE American opera founded on the landing of Columbus and a romance of an Indian girl with one of his knights and so on—of course I’ll finish it and have it produced later,” she supplemented in all seriousness—“I have decided to do a series of operas dealing with American wars. First, the Revolution—you are to be Moll Pitcher—then 1812—then the Mexican War—the Civil War—the Spanish-American—pray heaven there will be no other. Don’t you see how great it will be—great—_great_?” her body swaying with excitement. “Yesterday, I did two arias.” She fumbled about the secretary and unearthed music paper covered with startling black notes. “Oh, Thurley, I must succeed—I must. I won’t take no from either gods or half-gods. I’ll defy them! I won’t slink away and become an upstate saleswoman for victrolas! There!” “I hope you will,” Thurley said gently. “You say that as if you’d like to add, ‘Here, my pore gel, take this quarter and wear a cap the next time you meet me!’ Wait—wait until you fail.” Thurley’s spirit was roused. “But I won’t—not in my work.” “There are other ways than work—love, for instance?” “I won’t fail in love,” the defiant, wild-rose Thurley was always on hand to meet a challenge. “Don’t promise yourself everything,” was Polly’s sage advice, “and now, I believe we are ready to decamp.” CHAPTER XVIII She found Collin’s place more than Polly said, since Polly viewed it through adoring eyes and was blind to tiny flaws. Their approach was anything but conventional. They had raced up from the station, Polly winning by a nose, hilarious young persons with flushed faces. They found the famous Collin, in an artist’s smock of gray chambray, sweeping off his front steps! Upon seeing them, he called out, “Cook left last night with a case of champagne—there are all the dishes to wash ... and the boy left yesterday morning with my two best suits—oh, ho, art is merely incidental,” continuing his sweeping in vigorous fashion. Then he dropped the broom and came down the walk to meet them. His garden had the air of age and mystery. The famous statue of Aphrodite attributed to Praxiteles was in a monolith of white marble lined with brass and surrounded by a small fountain which paid her homage. As soon as midsummer came, he explained to Thurley, there would be yellow lilies with heavy sweetness, the clean fragrance of shy heliotrope, creamy, bending tassels of spiræa forming an aisle up to the white stucco house with its contrasting dark, wooden trimmings.