“‘Victorious Victoria’! It is engraven on my heart. I tried harder to make him burn the manuscript than I did to play well before Queen Mary and King George,” she said in a dull voice. “Yet she was ‘Victorious Victoria,’ for she gave her sponsor a new motor and a lot of foolish jewelry and a Japanese valet and some first editions that he boasted of having wrenched from a millionaire at an auction sale! You see, Caleb thinks there is no need to sacrifice for one’s ideals or to be above a purchase price for mediocre work. He says, ‘Writing is a trade. We must all come in on a time clock or be taken to an insane asylum. Give the public what it wants and with their money we can buy what we want. Let the public take the consequent softening of the brain. Younger generations will always be appearing like spring violets and measles to save us authors’ and artists’ bacon!’ There is the alpha and omega of his philosophy. One might as well throw oneself against a stone fortress as to make him reason otherwise. Blind, blind as an adder!” She broke off abruptly to call Thurley’s attention to some pottery she had picked up in Dutch Guiana which could not be obtained save as one became a friend of the natives. Then a maid came in with the tea-cart and Ernestine began asking as to “one lump or two—cream or sugar or lemon.” “Your dress is so interesting,” Thurley remarked to break the lull. “Thanks. I loathe clothes, yet have to have those dreadful creations when I go on tour—the critics always expect it. They put notices in the social columns, too! My revenge will come when I am in the perilous forties. I shall be constantly clad in black chiffon and steel embroideries with ermine and broadcloth for the outer layers. I aspire to be the sort of older-than-I-look-but-not-yet-ancient person who has the proper air of mystery, always an asset, the sure, fine lines of a Helleu dry point, you know.” “No, I don’t know,” Thurley admitted drolly. Ernestine clapped her hands. “Fine, we are coming on! Take some more marmalade. Please don’t let them spoil you, Thurley, you’re so nice as you are. I mean the army of make-overs who assail any one with ability. They have not begun attacks as yet. Wait until you are asked for written recommendations and some one invents a Thurley perfume. Oh, that you might be spared!” She held up her hands in horror. “Does Mr. Hobart really think I shall be a great singer?” Thurley was experiencing her first stage fright, hence the repetition. “No one sees him the second time unless he does,” Ernestine informed her. “Tell me about yourself. Remember I’m a cross pianist who dislikes having ability and yet would die if I did not. You can trust me, because no one ever comes near me!” “Don’t you adore your work?” Thurley asked in reproach.