“Yes, I am!” said Rosa, with petulance. “Nobody understands. They think because I can work and teach, and take care of myself and other people, and look serious, that that’s all of me, and that I’m good and quiet. But I’m not, if being good means being contented in—in a pond with a fence all round it. I should like to knock about, have to take care of myself, and live in a lodging! I like the gas and the fun, and the ups and downs of it, and not being sure of succeeding; and if Violante was married I’d do it to-morrow!”
“But, Rosa—”
“But, Trixy, I mean what I say. I can act as I can do nothing else; but whether it is possible for me to be an actress is another thing, I know very well. It couldn’t make much difference to all of you—could it?”
“Well, no,” said Beatrice, “I don’t think, we should consider that it did. But, Rosa, you would either have to begin in the smallest possible way, or else study for years; and how could you pay for getting yourself taught? You might ask Mr A—,” mentioning an eminent actor of well-known kindness and respectability; “he sometimes comes here. But when there’s the other thing all ready for you!”
“Oh, Trixy, I know,” said Rosa. “But of course,” she added, “I can’t be expected to feel that it would be unsuitable. If I had a voice—oh! if I had—what it would have saved Violante and me!”
“You gave up the idea once before,” said Beatrice.
“Yes,” said Rosa, rather faintly.
“There was something then you would have liked better still, eh! Rose?”
“Yes,” said Rosa, with a sudden heart-throb.
“I’m afraid he wasn’t good for much, Rosy,” said her cousin, patting her hair.