“No, Aunt Gloria, I don’t think Mother’s views had changed at all. She sent me here because you are my only living relative and she thought I was too young to live alone—and I came,” she continued bravely, “because New York is the best place in America to study art and I want to be a great painter. But if you don’t want me here I’ll live alone—I have money you know, and Mother intended that I should pay my own way.”
“I understand,” said Gloria, nodding. “That would be in character—a sort of blood is stronger than Bohemia idea.”
“And then,” continued Ruth, determined to be absolutely frank, “I think Mother was under the impression that you were older than you are, and had settled down—you have retired from the stage?”
Again Gloria laughed.
“My dear child, I’ve done nothing but retire from the stage ever since I first went on it, but that doesn’t matter. I agree with your mother that you will be much better off here with me than alone, and I shall be very glad to have you—it means one more permanent resident in this huge barn of a house. Only please don’t call me Aunt. Call me Gloria. My being your aunt is more or less of an accident. The fact that I like you is of vastly more importance, and if you like me we shall get on very well together.”
“I think you’re wonderful,” admitted Ruth, blushing deeply.
“Very well, then, you shall stay here—you can have two rooms or more if you want ’em, fixed up to suit yourself, and you can spend your income on your clothes and your education—but you will be here as my guest, not as my relative. I dislike relatives inordinately—don’t you?”
Without giving Ruth time to reply she went on:
“Have you thought about where you’re going to study?”
“No; I suppose there are a number of places.”