"I know," he cried. "You've told me a thousand times what HE'S said—ten times a thousand. You're going to Paris!"
"Paris! Yes, that's it. To Paris, where he can see at last how the great ones have painted,—where the others can show him! To Paris, where we can study together, where he can learn how to put the pictures he sees upon canvas, and where I—"
"Go on," Joe encouraged her. "I want to hear you say it. You don't mean that you're going to study painting; you mean that you're going to learn how to make such fellows as Eugene ask you to dance. Go ahead and SAY it!"
"Yes—to learn how to DRESS!" she said.
Joe was silent for a moment. Then he rose and took the ragged overcoat from the back of his chair. "Where's that muffler?" he asked.
She brought it from where she had placed it to dry, behind the stove.
"Joe," she said, huskily, "can't you wait till—"
"Till the estate is settled and you can coax your grandfather to—"
"No, no! But you could go with us."
"To Paris?"