“Because it is so unworthy of you, my artist.”
“Artist! This looks like it, doesn’t it?”
“Exactly like it. It is your very finely strung nature which makes these trivial trials so distasteful to you. It isn’t laziness or selfishness or vanity; no, I am sure it is not.”
Belle dropped the wooden-handled dish-cloth with a splash, and gazed at her mother in astonishment. “Why—Mother! Did—you—think it was?”
“No, darling, I did not. Others might think so.”
“Motherkin, I—hate it!”
“You must kill the hatred.”
“I can’t; it’s born in me.”
“Unfortunately, it is the fault of my mistaken training.”
“No, no, no. Please don’t say that. I am ashamed of it, but I can’t help it.”