"And you call yourself practical. Nonsense, nonsense! It is I who am the practical one. I proved it. I bought watercolors, drawing-paper, pencils, brushes, a nice little outfit for thirty-eight shillings, and, Nansie, I set to work. Upon my honor, I painted a picture which I considered not bad."
"What did you do with it? You have brought it with you?"
"No, my dear little wife, I sold it."
"Why, Kingsley," said Nansie, in a delighted tone, "you have actually already made a start."
"I have," said Kingsley, laughing heartily. "The picture painted, I took it out to the shops. My dear, they rather pooh-poohed it at first."
"They ought to have been ashamed of themselves," exclaimed Nansie, indignantly.
"They weren't. But I met with a patron at last. He was a stationer, and said the picture was of no use to him. 'But it's worth something,' I said. To be honest with you, Nansie, I was getting rather disgusted with the whole affair. 'It's worth something,' I said. 'Two-pence,' said the shop-keeper. 'Done,' said I, and I threw the picture on the counter, and held out my hand. He stared at me, but I gave him to understand that he had offered me two-pence for my picture, and that I accepted it. He stared harder than ever and handed me the two-pence. It is the first money I ever earned in my life, and I have brought it home to you. The experiment was a capital one, Nansie; it taught me something--that I am not cut out for a painter. Next to discovering what you can do, the best thing is to discover what you can't do. Having discovered it, turn the key on it."
Nansie gazed at him sadly. He was speaking with animation, and there was an excited flush in his face. His eyes were bright, and his manner was indicative of anything but disappointment.
"I thought then," continued Kingsley, "that I would try my friends, but when I came to consider, I arrived at the conclusion that there was only one to whom I could disclose my position. I went to him and made full confession. He is an older fellow than I, and wiser. What I like about him is that he doesn't say: 'You shouldn't have done this,' or 'You shouldn't have done that.' He hits the nail on the head. 'There is no hope of your father relenting?' said he. 'None,' said I. 'Time may soften him,' he said. 'Even if it does,' said I, 'there is a problem to solve while the grass is growing.' 'You must live,' said he, 'of course.' 'Of course,' said I. 'And you must work to live,' said he. I assented. 'Then,' said he, 'let us see what you are fit for.' My own thought, Nansie, put almost in my own words. But although we considered and talked we arrived at nothing tangible. He seemed really more troubled than I was, and at the end of a long conversation he said: 'Kingsley, old fellow, I can lend you a tenner.' It was noble of him, because he must have known that there was little chance of my being able to repay him. I thanked him, and said I wouldn't borrow in such circumstances as mine. Then he invited me to dine with him, and I accepted. And that, my dear Nansie, is all I have to tell you."
He gazed round at Nansie with the air of a man who had just finished a pleasant tale, and said: