"Oh, do talk to me, Miss Urquhart," said Gavine in a voice which vibrated with earnest longing. "Jockie said you would. I want to know so much. I want to get satisfied."
Sidney gave a little happy laugh as she tucked Gavine's arm within hers.
"You poor child! Talking is easy, but the right talk is what we want. And I don't quite know where you are."
"I don't know where I am myself," said Gavine, "except that long ago I felt that life would not bring me sunshine, so I determined that it should bring me work. But I seem thwarted on all sides. Now, it is true, I feel light is coming, but it has been obtained at tremendous cost. My mother has been long in coming round to my point of view, and she has told me definitely that, as I wish to take up work, I must look upon it as my profession or vocation in life, and never count again upon her house as my home. It makes me feel bitter, but it is happier to have a complete understanding between us. We haven't an idea in common. She says I am my father's daughter, and she never cared about him; it is no good to pretend she did. All my life I have been hoping she would have me with her, and let me take care of her and work for her. It has been one series of hopes and disappointments. Now it has come to a crisis, and it is better so. I can learn to stand alone.
"Many girls would glory in such freedom. I have £80 a year of my own now, for I was twenty-one last week. But though work is coming to me, it has not as yet made me really happy, and I am wondering if it will. I suppose it doesn't matter about being happy, does it? But you carry it about in your face. I was watching you to-day. I know you feel sad sometimes. I—don't laugh—but Jockie and I love looking at your face. It is so beautiful, and has so many changes in it. Before Chuckles began to talk, conversation was a little effort to you, and your thoughts were far-away; then, when he began to talk about building, light and gladness crept into your eyes and the merry ring into your voice. You looked as if you were brimming over with happiness, and I felt as if I was outside a house in the cold and rain, looking into a cosy firelit room. Do help me."
Quick tears had sprung into Sidney's eyes. She exclaimed impulsively:
"You shall not go to London till you know how you can be happy, dear. You will want the deep fountains of content inside you to tide you over all the sin and misery that you will see in London's slums. I wish you could come back to dinner with me this evening. Do you think you could? We will send you home."
Gavine's eyes looked very wistful.
"I wish I could. But I don't know whether mother would like it."
"Oh, yes, she will. I will send a note down and say I have kept you; that is the best way. Now let us go on talking. I wonder what foundation you have under your feet? I mean what do you rely on when things go wrong? What is your aim, your hope, your inspiration?"