"Yes," said Beth; "but my mother would not let me know you. She and I are always—always—we never agree, you know. I don't think we can help it; we certainly don't do it on purpose—at least I don't; but there's something in us that makes us jar about everything. I was going to tell her all about you on Sunday night; but when I got in I couldn't. She began by being angry because I was late, without waiting to know if I were to blame, and that—that shut me up, and I never told her; and now I don't think I could."
"But what objection can she have to me?" he asked loftily. "I really must make her acquaintance."
"Not through me, then," said Beth. "Do you know the Benyons?"
"No, I don't know anybody in the neighbourhood as yet. I'm here with old Rich to be crammed. My people are trying to force me into the bar or the church or something, because I want to be a sculptor."
"Don't be forced," said Beth with spirit. "Follow your own bent. I mean to follow mine."
"I didn't know girls had any bent," he answered dubiously.
There was a recoil in Beth. "How is it people never expect a girl to do anything?" she exclaimed, firing up.
"I don't see what a girl can do," he rejoined, "except marry and look after her husband and children."
"That's all right at the proper time," Beth said. "But meanwhile, and if she doesn't marry, is she to do nothing?"
"Oh, there are always lots of little things a woman can do," he answered airily.