“You are an artist, Rosamund; you paint beautifully.”
“Dreadfully, you mean, mother. I have no knowledge of perspective. I have no true ideas of colour; but I could paint.”
I felt sparkles of hope coming into my eyes, and I knew my cheeks were flaming.
My mother glanced up at me admiringly. “You look quite handsome, dear,” she said. “Oh, if I could dress you properly! Rose, when I was your age I had nice clothes.”
“Never mind that, mother dear; I shall have money to buy nice clothes presently. I want to cultivate what I feel is within me, I want to cultivate the love which ought to become a power. I love pictures; I love dabbling with paints; my brush ought to be able to tell stories, and it shall when once I have mastered the technical difficulties. I want to go to a school of art in London, to begin at the beginning, and work my way up. I should like best to go to the Slade School.”
My mother opened her lips to speak. I interrupted her.
“I know what you are going to say. There is no money. I have thought that part out very carefully. Mother, you must consent! Just for a little bit of pride my whole life must not be spoiled. Mother dear, it is dull at home, and I do so long for this. Let me go and see Cousin Geoffrey.”
My mother started when I said this. I knew she would, for Cousin Geoffrey’s name had always a potent, curious charm in our home. It was a name both of awe and admiration, and I felt quite sure when I spoke it that I should secure immediate and profound attention. Not that I had ever seen Cousin Geoffrey. I had heard of him all my life, but I had never yet laid eyes on him.
No one who was at all intimate with my mother could be long in her presence without hearing about Cousin Geoffrey.
She had the sweetest, most contented face in the world, but it generally took an expression of melancholy mixed with envy and profound awe when she spoke of this relative.