Every one in the house knew that my resolves were not to be trifled with. I did not often make them, but when I did, I metaphorically put down my foot, and kept it down. Even my father listened good-humouredly when I had one of my great determinations on.
Now my mother gently sighed, gave up the damson jam on the spot, and began to unroll her knitting.
“Be as quick as you can, Rosamund,” she said, in a rather weary voice.
“I can say what I want to say in a very few words, mother, only please don’t interrupt me. I am tired of my present life. I want to do something. I want to go to town every morning, and come back at night.”
My mother held up her hands.
“I want to earn money.”
A look of agony came into my mother’s gentle blue eyes. I turned slightly away.
“I have one talent, and I wish to cultivate it.” Here my mother would interrupt.
“You have many gifts, my dear child,” she said proudly. “In particular you have a great faculty for turning and contriving. Most invaluable under our circumstances.”
“I hate turning and contriving,” I burst out, “and I have only got one real talent, and that is, for art. I could be an artist.”