"But why do you like them?"
"Because I am afwaid of them!" and Nancy smiled bewitchingly.
Everybody found this an astonishingly profound reply, and the question of Nancy's genius recurred constantly in the conversation.
Edith said: "Of course, it will be painting. Her father, poor dear Tom, was such a wonderful landscape-painter. And I believe he did some splendid figures, too."
Mrs. Avory concurred; but Valeria shook her head and changed colour. "Oh, I hope not!" she said, instant tears gathering in her eyes.
Mrs. Avory looked hurt. "Why not, Valeria?" she said.
"Oh, the smell," sobbed Valeria; "and the models ... and I could not bear it. Oh, my Tom—my dear Tom!" And she sobbed convulsively, with her head on Mrs. Avory's shoulder, and with Edith's arm round her.
Nancy screamed loud, and had to be taken away to the nursery, where Fräulein Müller, the German successor of Wilson, shook her.
"Could it not be music?" said Valeria, after a while, drying her eyes dejectedly. "My mother was a great musician; she played the harp, and composed lovely songs. When she died, and I went to live in Milan with Uncle Giacomo, I used to play all Chopin's mazurkas and impromptus to him, although he said he hated music if anyone else played.... And, then, when I married ..."—Valeria's sobs burst forth again—"dear Tom ... said ..."