“Now, tell me all about it,” said Gloria. “There’s very little to tell. Mother died on the tenth—your letter arrived on the same day. Of course it wasn’t unexpected. She had been an invalid for almost ten years, so it wasn’t a shock. I was the only relative at the funeral, but Mother had ever so many friends—” She paused, wondering if she ought to tell Aunt Gloria about the flowers, the Eastern Star wreath, and— “I don’t mean that,” Gloria interrupted her thoughts. “I mean how your mother happened to suggest that you come here. You know Jack’s wife didn’t approve of me—refused to meet me even, and I can’t understand. Was there some sort of deathbed forgiveness, or what?” There was the faintest trace of mockery in her voice, but somehow Ruth could not be angry, though she knew that this woman, her father’s sister, was laughing at her dead mother and her dead mother’s conventions and moralities. She decided that she would be as frank as her aunt. “No, Aunt Gloria, I don’t think Mother’s views had changed at all. She sent me here because you are my only living relative and she thought I was too young to live alone—and I came,” she continued bravely, “because New York is the best place in America to study art and I want to be a great painter. But if you don’t want me here I’ll live alone—I have money you know, and Mother intended that I should pay my own way.” “I understand,” said Gloria, nodding. “That would be in character—a sort of blood is stronger than Bohemia idea.” “And then,” continued Ruth, determined to be absolutely frank, “I think Mother was under the impression that you were older than you are, and had settled down—you have retired from the stage?” Again Gloria laughed. “My dear child, I’ve done nothing but retire from the stage ever since I first went on it, but that doesn’t matter. I agree with your mother that you will be much better off here with me than alone, and I shall be very glad to have you—it means one more permanent resident in this huge barn of a house. Only please don’t call me Aunt. Call me Gloria. My being your aunt is more or less of an accident. The fact that I like you is of vastly more importance, and if you like me we shall get on very well together.” “I think you’re wonderful,” admitted Ruth, blushing deeply. “Very well, then, you shall stay here—you can have two rooms or more if you want ’em, fixed up to suit yourself, and you can spend your income on your clothes and your education—but you will be here as my guest, not as my relative. I dislike relatives inordinately—don’t you?” Without giving Ruth time to reply she went on: “Have you thought about where you’re going to study?” “No; I suppose there are a number of places.” “There are, of course; the Art Students’ League is one of the best. The associations there should be good. You’ll be working with the strugglers. How old are you?” “Nineteen.”