“Not that I ever heard of—they’re just—just art artists. They spend their lives in class and at exhibitions, but I’ve never tried to understand them—too busy trying to understand myself.” “What do they do when they’re not here?” asked Ruth. “They spend their leisure in the cool marble twilight of the Metropolitan, making bad copies of old masters.” The model had reappeared and they went back to their boards, but after class Ruth found that Dorothy Winslow was walking by her side toward Fifth Avenue. “Do you go downtown?” asked Dorothy. “Yes,” admitted Ruth. She was really very much interested in Dorothy, but she was a bit afraid that the girl would attract attention on the street. She now had a vivid blue tam with a yellow tassel on her fluffy hair. “How do you go?” “On the ’bus,” said Ruth. “So do I, when I can afford it; when I can’t I walk, but I guess I can spend the dime today. I got some fashion work to do last week.” “Fashions?” Ruth could not keep the scorn out of her voice. “Oh, I know how you feel about that, but one can’t become Whistler or Sargent all in a day, and paint and Michelet paper and canvas cost money.” “You must be awfully clever to be able to earn money with your work already,” admitted Ruth, a bit ashamed of herself. “I have talent,” admitted Dorothy, “but then so many people have talent. I’ve got an idea that work counts a whole lot more than talent, but of course that’s an awfully practical, inartistic idea—only I can’t help it. I had to come to New York and I couldn’t come without a scholarship, so I worked and got it. What do you think about it?” “Work counts of course, but without the divine spark of genius—one must have talent and genius, and then work added makes the ideal combination. Why, if only hard work were necessary, any one, any stevedore or common labourer or dull bookkeeper, could become a great artist.” “That doesn’t sound so silly to me. I really think they could, if the idea only occurred to them and they didn’t give up. I think any one can be anything they please, if they only please it long enough.” It was like Ruth to answer this with a quotation. “I don’t think so,” she said. “‘There is a destiny that shapes our ends, rough-hew them as we may.’” “Perhaps, but some people do a lot more rough-hewing than others, and I’m going to hew my way to a position as the greatest American portrait painter, and it won’t be so rough either.” Before such blind self-confidence Ruth was dumb. She also intended to be a great something or other in the world of art, but she had never thought definitely enough about it to decide just what it would be. She did think now, or spoke without thinking. “Then I’ll be the greatest landscape painter—landscapes with figures.” Before they parted at Twentieth Street, Ruth had promised to go to an exhibition with Dorothy on the following Saturday.