“You have great talent,” said the artist, “but it needs cultivation. After two or three years' severe training you may do something.” Then Clytie asked him the question that had been burning her heart for two days. “Do you think I shall ever be able to earn my own living?” “You might do that now, if you chose, and had patience,” he replied. “How?” “By book illustrating.” “But I want to become a great artist.” “Doubtless. Most of us do. You may if you try hard, and love art for art's sake. But,” he added, looking at her keenly--“there always is a 'but,' Miss Davenant.” “Why do you say that?” she asked quickly. “_Parce que_, as the French say--begging your pardon.” And that was practically the end of the conversation. All this had happened to Clytie three months before Mrs. Blather had discovered the offending picture in Clytie's attic studio and had carried it to her father. After this foretaste of life the girl wearied more than ever of Durdleham with its soullessness, its stagnation, its prim formulas. A dangerous reaction of spirit set in, leading her to long spells of hopeless melancholy, alternating with outbursts of passionate rebellion. She would stand for hours in the recess of her window gazing over the flat stretch of country, and dreaming strange dreams of the world that lay beyond the dreary horizon--dreams in which sharp reminiscence mingled with fancy in vague, weird shapes. But still she was beginning to realise herself, her needs, her vague cravings. Her passionate desires now flowed into some definite channel--to escape at all costs from Durdleham, and consequently to enter that free world of art the glimpse of which had enchanted her. The scenes between her sisters and herself were of daily occurrence. The narrower, gentler women were shocked at her wilfulnesses, her unladylike behaviour; she was revolted to her soul at the pettiness and sordidness of the disputes. Existence at Durdleham had become impossible. “For God's sake, Gracie, let me go away from here,” she cried one day, “or I shall hate you--and I want to love you if I can. Let me go to London. Auntie will take me in. Oh, my God! I shall go mad in this place among you.” And Mrs. Blather, for the sake of her own tranquillity and the reputation of the family, made up her mind that Clytie should have her desire and that Durdleham should know her no more. And in the end Mrs. Blather gained her father's consent to the arrangement; but the old man looked upon Clytie almost as a lost soul. CHAPTER II.