"I have never had much opportunity," said Sylvia simply, "and, as you can see, I never made the most of what I did have. I suppose father had ambition once"—
"Indeed he did, my dear!" put in Miss Lacey emphatically.
Sylvia started. In her absorption she had forgotten her aunt's presence.
"Yes, I suppose so," she replied; "but things went hard with him, and for years past the only work he could depend upon were the pictures he made for advertisements and an occasional cartoon for a paper."
"Indeed," returned Miss Lacey, leaning forward and poking the fire in her embarrassment. This was entirely gratuitous frankness on Sylvia's part. "Well, I can assure you he was made for better things," she went on, bridling. "When you visit me I will show you a landscape in my parlor worth a thousand of the daubs people rave over. Half the time you can't tell whether they're trying to paint a tulip field or a prairie fire. Ridiculous! You can almost count the rings on the horns of the cows in this landscape. It's what I call a picture."
It was well that Miss Lacey enjoyed this work of art, for it was all she had to show for many a squeeze given to her slender purse by the artist.
Edna paused in the talk she was led into by her guest's eager attention and questions.
"Listen to the surf!" she exclaimed. "You must see that show, Sylvia. We must go down to the rocks."
"Fine! But I haven't any other clothes if I wet these," returned the girl, looking down.
"Oh, it's bathing suits to-day, and rubbers, and mackintoshes."