“O Madge! Can’t you make them think well of it?”
“I’m afraid not. Father never did really believe in my going in for art, and I think he believes in it less now than he ever did. He says I’ve been at it for three years, and I haven’t painted a pretty picture yet. And he says he doesn’t see what good it’s going to do me in after-life; that if I marry I sha’n’t keep it up, and there wouldn’t be any good in my trying to;—which is, of course a mistake, only I can’t make him believe that it is,—and he says that if I don’t marry, I’ve got to earn my living sooner or later.”
“Why, but that’s just it, Madge! You’re going to be able to earn your living! You’re sure to!” 90
But Madge was again engrossed in her work. The afternoon would soon draw to a close, and if she wished to carry out her designs upon that ear it behooved her to stop talking. Though her little picture was an oval of three inches by four, it had cost her more strokes than any canvas of ten times the size had ever done. And Eleanor was to sail in a fortnight!
At last the light began to fade, and Madge knew that she must stop.
“What do you suppose Father said to me this morning?” she asked, as she washed out her brushes and put her paint-box in order.
“I can’t imagine.”
“Well, he said that when any good judge thought my pictures worth paying for in good hard cash, it would be time to think of sending me ‘traipsing over the world with my paint-pot.’ He said that if I would come to him with a fifty-dollar bill of my own earning he should begin to think there was some sense in my art-talk.”
“Did he really say that? Why, Madge, who knows?” 91
Madge had shut up her paint-box and moved to the window, where she was gloomily looking down into her neighbours’ backyards.