“Couldn’t I draw pictures for books and magazines? Everybody says I draw very nicely. You say so, too. Couldn’t I earn enough money to live on and to take care of you and father?”
Wilbour Carew looked up from his reverie:
“To learn to draw correctly and with taste,” he said in his gentle, pedantic voice, “requires a special training which we cannot afford to give you, Ruhannah.”
“Must I wait till I’m twenty-five before I can have my money?” she asked for the hundredth time. “I do so need it to educate myself. Why did grandma do such a thing, mother?”
“Your grandmother never supposed you would need the money until you were a grown woman, dear. Your father and I were young, vigorous, full of energy; your father’s income was ample for us then.”
“Have I got to marry a man before I can get enough money to take lessons in drawing with?”
Her mother’s drawn smile was not very genuine. When a child asks such questions no mother finds it easy to smile.
“If you marry, dear, it is not likely you’ll marry in order to take lessons in drawing. Twenty-five is not 24 old. If you still desire to study art you will be able to do so.”
“Twenty-five!” repeated Rue, aghast. “I’ll be an old woman.”
“Many begin their life’s work at an older age––”