“Pooh!” said Patty, who sometimes didn’t know whether Mr. Hepworth was teasing her or not, “that isn’t a clever thing to say.”
“Well, if you don’t mean it for an epigram, I’ll forgive you,—but don’t let it happen again. Now, as to Christine Farley. I’ll let you be clever for once, if you’ll turn your cleverness to devising some way to aid her to an art education. Can you think of any way?”
“I can think of dozens,” returned Patty, “but the only thing to do is for her to come to New York, get a scholarship at the Art School, and then board in a hall bedroom,—art students always do that,—and they have jolly good times with chafing dishes and palette knives, and such things. I’ve read about ’em.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Hepworth, “but how is she to pay the board for the hall bedroom? They are really quite poor, I’m told.”
“Well!” said Patty, scornfully, “anybody,—the merest infant,—could earn enough money outside class hours to pay a small sum like that, I should hope! Why, how much would such board cost?”
“Patty, child,” said her father, “you don’t know much of social economics, do you? I fancy the young woman could board properly for about twelve or fifteen dollars a week; eh, Hepworth?”
“Yes; I daresay fifteen dollars a week would cover her expenses, including her art materials. Of course this would mean literally the ‘hall bedroom’ in a very modest boarding-house.”
“Well!” went on Patty, “and do you mean to say that this girl couldn’t earn fifteen dollars a week, and attend her classes, too?”
“I mean to say just that,” said Mr. Hepworth, seriously.
“I agree with you,” said Nan. “Why, I couldn’t earn fifteen dollars a week, and stay at home from the classes.”