“And Miss Wiggin assured me that I need not expect any further orders from her friends; she was in earnest, and a temper, so what are we to do?”
“Ask old Mrs. Mote to lend us five pounds—or go out and sell matches?”
“Oh, Joe, I’d rather sell matches. I should hate to borrow, though she is a dear old thing. Our affairs would be all over Dullditch.”
“If we are found in a garret starved to death, and the fact is printed in scare lines in the Daily Mail, our affairs will also be the talk of the village; however, never say die! I’ve brought back the sketches, and I’ll have another try—it means twenty-five shillings.”
“And the rent,” said Josephine. “I cannot understand how we do so badly—we got on swimmingly at first; visitors, orders, promises, payment, theatre tickets, invitations—and now!”
“People were kind. We were new, unsophisticated, fresh and green from the country; but only a pair of clever, self-confident amateurs. We have done our best; it is not in us to do more—to excel.”
“Unless we could go over to Paris, and work there.”
“Might as well talk of going to heaven.”
“Goodness knows I work hard,” continued Josephine, with a catch in her breath; “I study all the pictures I can, I run into the National Gallery on free days, and stare, and ponder, and wish, and wonder; but it’s all something so far above me—Genius—Genius—Genius!”
Her sister nodded a grave assent.