So was it just now with Celia Maryon. As she took in the full bearing of young Balderson's observations, she felt more and more struck by them. She looked up in his face with a strange cloud in her eyes, and Eric himself felt surprised. He imagined that he had somehow or other hurt or offended her. "I beg your pardon," he began, "if--Of course I would not be so presumptuous as to suppose I could judge of the circumstances." Celia smiled. She would be true to her colours at any cost, and her colours meant her sister Winifred. The truth was that she was at a loss how to reply; she had never looked at things in this light before. She wanted to think it all over quietly by herself, but she was not going to allow this to any one else. "No," she said, "of course you can't judge. You don't know Winifred, or what there is in her. My other sister, Louise, is the home one. She is not nearly so clever as Winifred, but she does pretty well. The bailiff isn't bad, though I'm afraid he's going to leave, and old Mr Peckerton, the lawyer, comes over if he's wanted. Things _go_ on in a groovy, old-fashioned way, but, oh, no! Winifred could never find her life-work in these directions." And again Celia smiled, a superior, almost contemptuous little smile this time. Her own words half-persuaded herself that she had been foolish to be so impressed by the young man's scarcely conscious remonstrance. "Ah, of course I can't pretend to judge," he repeated, and the modesty of his tone encouraged her to say a little more, to stifle her own misgivings as much as to keep up her sister's dignity. "Winifred is intended for a larger life altogether," she said. "And there are three of us at home. People are beginning to see the facts about women's lives differently. Why should we be condemned to trivial idleness? Look how some have thrown off the trammels! There is Miss Norreys, for instance. Could you imagine _her_ spending her life in ordering legs of mutton and darning stockings?" "No," said Eric simply, "I couldn't. And I don't think any woman's life need be, or should be, so dull and narrow. But still, Hertha Norreys is not a fair example. She has a gift, an undoubted gift. I think its greatness is scarcely yet recognised by herself or others; perhaps it never will be. But still she has not ignored it. She felt she had a talent and she was bound to cultivate it, and she has done so. In her case there was no choice." Celia looked interested. "I am glad you allow _that_, at any rate," she said, and glancing at her, the young man almost fancied that she blushed a little. "Of course _I_ think cleverness like Winifred's a gift, but I can understand ordinary people not looking upon it as if she had a great talent for music, or--or painting. It is easier when you have the one distinct power. Now there is Lady Campion. Your mother seems to think her so talented, but she has not concentrated her talents."