“She knows you have come then.”
“It is impossible for her not to know that I have come. But she is angry—grieved—even frightened. You could not have been at all kind to my mother long ago, Cousin Geoffrey.”
“Hush—chit! Let your mother’s name drop out of our conversation. Now, I will sit down near you, and we can talk. You have come to see me of your own free will? Granted. You are my relative—not twenty degrees removed? Granted. Now, what can I do for you. Rosamund Lindley?”
“I want you to help me,” I said.
I spoke out quite boldly.
“You are rich, and I am poor. It is more blessed to give than to receive.”
“Ha, ha! You want me to be one of the blessed ones? Very neatly put. Upon my word, you’re a brave girl. You quite entertain me. Go on.”
My cheeks were very red now, but I was not going to be beaten.
“Cousin Geoffrey,” I said, “we are all very poor at home, and I hate being poor. We have all to pinch and contrive, and I loathe pinching and contriving. I have a talent, and I want to cultivate it. I want to be an artist. I can’t be an artist without money. I wish to go to one of the good schools of art, here in London, and study hard, and work my way up from the very beginning. I have no money to do this, but you have lots of money. As you are my cousin, I think you ought to give me enough money to learn art at one of the great schools here. I think you ought. You are my relative—you ought to help me.”
I had flung my words out almost defiantly, but now something seemed to catch my voice; it broke.