Not for worlds would she have Christine think she was laughing at her, so in a moment she had straightened her grinning face, smothered her giggles, and returned, saying:
“Excuse me, please; I had a sudden choking spell. What were you saying?”
“You poor dear! Mayn’t I get you a glass of water?”
“No, thanks; I’m all right now. As to your question—no, Christine, I do not think you could earn fifteen dollars a week! No, nor fifteen cents a week, while you’re occupied with your lessons.”
Christine looked aghast. “Oh, Patty!” she said. “Then what am I to do? I thought you’d say, yes, I could earn that sum easily.”
Again Patty wanted to laugh. A month ago she would have said that very thing.
“Christine,” she said, gently, “listen to me. We Fairfields and Mr. Hepworth all take an interest in you and in your career. We all feel sure you will yet be a great artist. Of course, our belief is founded on Mr. Hepworth’s assertions, but we know he is capable of judging. Now you must have that year of study, and by that time Mr. Hepworth feels sure you can earn quite a lot of money by illustrating, and whatever he thinks goes!”
“Well,” said Christine, as Patty paused, uncertain how to proceed.
“Well, you see,” went on Patty, suddenly deciding that the plain, outspoken facts were best, “father has offered to pay your board for a year at some nice, pleasant boarding-house, and——Mercy! What’s the matter?”
For Christine had turned first a blazing, fiery red, and then as white as chalk, and seemed about to tumble off her chair.