"It is not likely that our niece—"
"That Ernest's daughter—" said Miss Juliet softly.
"Should ever do aught to give us cause to blush—"
"Save with pride and pleasure," added the younger old lady, laying her fingers on the girl's soft, dark, abundant hair.
"I hope not, aunts." Hyacinthe looked at Miss King a bit wistfully as she spoke. "You know I am not come to be a burden to you—the madre wrote: I am come to England to pursue my art."
"My sister-in-law did—"
"Your dear mother did—" Miss Juliet chimed in gently.
"Write something of the kind, but, Hyacinthe, ladies do not go out into the world seeking their fortunes. I believe I have heard"—Miss King speaks austerely and as from some pinnacle of pride—"that there are women who write and lecture and paint, and, in short, do anything that is disgraceful; but you, my dear, are not of that blood."
"Yes, aunt, I am. I would do any of those things—must do one of them or something—to help me find my Saxon god."
"Your what?" cries Miss King, staring over her spectacles at the serene, heroic young face.