“This is our home—Aunt Peace has given it to us.”
“It was ours anyway, wasn’t it?”
“In a way, it was, but your grandfather left it to Aunt Peace. If he had not died suddenly he would have changed his will. Mother said he intended to, but he kept putting it off.”
“Do you want me to keep on studying the violin?”
Margaret looked up in surprise, but Lynn was pacing back and forth with his hands clasped behind him and his head down.
“Why not, dear?” she asked, very gently.
“Well,” he sighed, “I don’t believe I’m ever going to make anything of it. Of course I can play—Herr Kaufmann says, if it satisfies me to play the music as it is written, he can teach me that much, but he hasn’t a very good opinion of me. I’d rather be a first-class carpenter than a second-rate violinist, and I’m twenty-three—it’s time I was choosing.”
Margaret’s heart misgave her, but she spoke bravely. “Lynn, look at me.”
He turned, and his eyes met hers, openly and unashamed.
“Tell me the truth—do you want to be an artist?”