"How can she?" asked Mariana.
"Of course I can't," retorted Miss Oliver, shortly. "I never had a paint-brush in my hand in my life, except when I was cleaning it."
Miss Freighley laid her sewing aside and stretched her arms.
"It only requires a little determination," she said, "and I have it. I got tired of Alabama. I couldn't come to New York without an object, so I invented one. It was as good as any other, and I stuck to it."
Miss Hill shook her head, and her glorious hair shone like amber.
"Art is serious," she said, slowly. She was just entering the life-class at the Art League.
"But the artist is not," returned Miss Freighley, "and one can be an artist without having any art. I am. They think at home I am learning to paint pictures to go on the parlor wall in place of the portraits that were burned in the war. But I am not. I am here because I love New York, and—"
"Claude Nevins," concluded Miss Oliver.
Mariana looked up with interest. "How nice!" she said. "He told me you were awfully pretty."
Miss Freighley blushed and laughed.