“Why certainly, my dear, certainly!”
“Can you tell me how it is that I have had no answer?”
Mr. Pengarth coughed. He was not at all comfortable.
“Your guardian, Miss Juliet, is somewhat eccentric,” he answered, “and he is a very busy man.”
“Can you tell me, Mr. Pengarth, exactly what relation he is to me?”
There was a dead silence. Mr. Pengarth found the room suddenly warm, and mopped his forehead with a large silk handkerchief.
“I have no authority,” he declared, “to answer any questions.”
“Then can you tell me of your own accord,” she said, “why there is all this mystery? Why may I not know who he is, why may I not write to him? Am I anything to be ashamed of, that he will not trust me even with his name? I am tired of accepting so much and not being able to offer even my thanks in return. It is too much like charity! I have made up my mind that if this is to go on, I will go away and earn my own living! There, Mr. Pengarth!”
“Rubbish!” he exclaimed briskly. “What at?”
“Painting!” she declared triumphantly. “I have had this in my mind for some time, and I have been trying to see what I can do best. I have quite decided, now, to be an artist.”