"Yes,--it's the Prince who sets out to seek his fortune, isn't it? The Princess has to sit at home and wait for hers to come to her. It generally does if she's a real Princess." "But half the fun must be the seeking for it," said Betty. "You're right," said he, "it is." The labourer had reached the park-gate. His pace had quickened to the quickening remembrance of his own daughter, sitting at home silent and sullen. "Do you really see it in my hand?" asked Betty,--"about my crossing the sea, I mean." "It's there; but it depends on yourself, like everything else." "I did ask my step-father to let me go," she said, "after that first day, you know, when you said I ought to study in Paris." "And he wouldn't, of course?" "No; he said Paris was a wicked place. It isn't really, is it?" "Every place is wicked," said he, "and every place is good. It's all as one takes things." The Rectory gate clicked sharply as it swung to behind the labourer. The Rectory gravel scrunched beneath the labourer's boots. Yes, the Master was up; he could be seen. The heavy boots were being rubbed against the birch broom that, rooted at Kentish back doors, stands to receive on its purple twigs the scrapings of Kentish clay from rustic feet. "You have the artistic lines very strongly marked," Vernon was saying. "One, two, three--yes, painting--music perhaps?" "I am very fond of music," said Betty, thinking of the hour's daily struggle with the Mikado and the Moonlight Sonata. "But three arts. What could the third one be?" Her thoughts played for an instant with unheard-of triumphs achieved behind footlights--rapturous applause, showers of bouquets. "Whatever it is, you've enormous talent for it," he said; "you'll find out what it is in good time. Perhaps it'll be something much more important than the other two put together, and perhaps you've got even more talent for it than you have for others." "But there isn't any other talent that I can think of." "I can think of a few. There's the stage,--but it's not that, I fancy, or not exactly that. There's literature--confess now, don't you write poetry sometimes when you're all alone at night? Then there's the art of being amusing, and the art of being--of being liked." "Shall I be successful in any of the arts?" "In one, certainly." "Ah," said Betty, "if I could only go to Paris!" "It's not always necessary to go to Paris for success in one's art," he said. "But I want to go. I'm sure I could do better there." "Aren't you satisfied with your present Master?" "Oh!"--It was a cry of genuine distress, of heartfelt disclaim. "You _know_ I didn't mean that! But you won't always be here, and when you've gone--why then--" Again he had to control the involuntary movement of his left arm. "But I'm not going for months yet. Don't let us cross a bridge till we come to it. Your head-line promises all sorts of wonderful things. And your heart-line--" he turned her hand more fully to the light.