The reply was prompt and unexpected. Mr. Desmond's brows contracted.
"You know my will about paints," he said.
Then Jean cast prudence to the winds. Her young, passionate soul swelled within her.
"Grandfather," she said, "you hate deceit of any kind and so do I. I have been waiting to tell you. I cannot keep from painting. It is no good. I believe it was born in me. I must do it; I have been painting a picture lately that I feel is the best I have done. I will show it to you if you like."
She darted from the room, returning very shortly with her treasure.
"There!" she said triumphantly as she held it out to him. "I know it is full of faults, but I have had no teaching, and if I can do as well without any help, what should I do under a master?"
It required no keen inspection to tell that Jean's little picture bore the marks of genius.
But she was quite unprepared for the paroxysm of fury that took possession of her grandfather. He seized the picture, and dashing it to the ground, stamped it underfoot. Then with an oath he turned upon her.
"Are you to be a perpetual taunt to me of my son's disgraceful alliance?" he roared. "Am I not to be master in my own house? Have I fed and clothed you all these years to meet with this insolent, ill-bred defiance? What did I tell you a short time ago?"
"That you would wash your hands of me, or words to that effect," said Jean, trembling before him, but steeling herself to withstand his anger. "You have housed and fed me all these years, but you have never loved me. I suppose I remind you too much of my mother. I want to go away from you. I cannot live on here and be kept from using the talent God has given me. As I must and will paint, I mean to go away. I want you to give me some money and let me go."