“A female Palissy would revolutionize our ideas of woman’s art.”
“A pleasant creature she would be! Tearing up the flooring and breaking the chairs for firewood! An abominable desecration of the housewifely instincts! I don’t know what Allan Hope will do about it,” Mary pursued.
“Ah! That is an accepted fact, then?”
“Dear me, yes. Lady Mainwaring is very anxious for it. It shows what Allan’s steady persistency has accomplished. The child hasn’t a penny, you know.”
“You think she’d have him?”
“Of course she will have him. And a lucky girl she is for the chance! But, before the definite acceptance, she will, of course, lead him the usual dance; it’s quite the thing now among girls of that type. Individuality; their own life to be lived, their Art—in capitals—to be lived for; home, husband, children, degrading impediments. Such tiresome rubbish! I am very sorry for poor Allan.” Peter studied his boots.
“Allan probably accounts for that general absent-mindedness I observed in her; perhaps Allan accounts for more than we give her credit for; this desperate devotion to her painting, her last struggle to hold to her ideal. Really the theory that she is badly in love explains everything. Poor child!”
“Why poor, Peter? Allan Hope is certainly the very nicest man I know, barring yourself and Jack. He has done more than creditably in the House, and now that he is already on the Treasury Bench, has only to wait for indefinite promotion. He is clever, kind, honest as the day. He will be an earl when the dear old earl dies, and that that is a pretty frame to the picture no one can deny. What more can a girl ask?”
“This girl probably asks some impossible dream. I’m sorry for people who haven’t done dreaming.”
“Between you and me, Peter, I don’t think Hilda is really clever enough to do much dreaming—of the pathetic sort. Her eyes are clever; she sees things prettily, and puts them down prettily; but there is nothing more. She struck me as a trifle stupid—really dull, you know.”