"But I don't want to be thought that sort of girl," she said. "I don't want to be thought rich, and I am _not_ rich. I am dependent on papa. Besides, if I were--if I had been a son, I should not have been debarred from a profession because I was the heir to `White Turrets' and Busheyreeds, and all the property. Why should a woman be treated differently in such a case? Why should _her_ wings be clipped and she be restricted to a narrow, monotonous life any more than a man?" Celia scented danger. She saw that Winifred was lashing herself up to one of her "revolts," as she called them herself sometimes, and she knew that any, even the slightest suspicion of less full sympathy than she had hitherto been able to give would be sharply resented. Yet she was too honest to evade the possible discordance, painful though the smallest disagreement with her sister would be to her. For a moment or two she sat silent. Then she said boldly: "I am not sure of that ground, Winifred. I have been seeing things a little differently lately. If you had been a son--placed as you are--I doubt if it would have been thought right for you to have a profession-- outside work, so to say--when there is so much to do at home." "What nonsense!" said Winifred. "Do you mean to say that because a man had property to look after he would be debarred from cultivating his special gifts? Why, some, perhaps not many, but some of our greatest men--artists as well as statesmen and writers--have been rich men, men of property. No, it is only _women_ who are always hedged-in with one excuse or another." "But you haven't any special gifts," said Celia, "at least you always say so. Your wish is to be of use, and--to be independent;" and in her heart she felt the latter should have been placed first. "You can't be a statesman, and I don't think even you would regret that for a woman. But you can be of any amount of _use_ at home. And you could study all sorts of things about the management of property that would help you to be still more so." She felt half-frightened at her own daring, and her fears were not without foundation. Winifred stared at her, not quite sure if she were going to let herself get angry or not. "What has come over you, Celia?" she said at last. "You are worse than Louise. Who has been talking to you and putting all these ideas into your head? Do you apply them to yourself too? What about your longing to paint--to have really good instruction?" "I still long for it," said Celia, "and I _think_ I still believe it would be right for me to have it. I think I should test myself so as to find out if, I have a gift, a decided gift. For if so, I should cultivate it. In my case no definite responsibilities are before me in life, as is the case with you, yet--"