"The way will show itself if you are really needed. That is one of the small things I have learned the past year," responded Priscilla.
"Priscilla, you have helped me; you are a philosopher," cried Martine.
In their hour at the Art Museum Martine recovered her spirits. She really knew something about paintings, and her favorites were chosen with discrimination. She lingered long and silently before those she loved best, and gave reasons for her preferences that would have done credit to a connoisseur.
"I don't see how you ever learned so much," said Priscilla. "I feel like a perfect ignoramus before you when you talk of these things."
"I did not mean to pose as an expert; you make me feel as if I had been too bumptious," replied Martine. "It's only because we've travelled so much that I know something of art. I have picked it up little by little; even last summer, in spite of our efforts to devote ourselves to history, I gained a lot from Mrs. Redmond about color values, and light and shade."
"It's a great thing to know just what pictures to like," responded Priscilla. "I like some paintings more than others, but I never know why."
"Neither do I, my dear child, when we come right down to facts. I know why I ought to like certain things, but often those are the paintings that I like least. It's with pictures as with people, we admire many that we do not care for, and when we care very much, it's often because we really cannot help ourselves."
"You and I are so different," mused Priscilla, "I often wonder why you like me."
"Priscilla," cried Martine, "don't try to be a philosopher until you have left school."
Yet hardly an hour before Martine had been praising Priscilla for her philosophy.