If, in any way, he was not ready, not prepared, not desirous to receive her, she could stay alone for a little while. She had her own capital in her pictures. But no—now, she had no pictures, and the black tide of rage rolled up again to its full height and seemed to tower over her, but she grappled and fought, and wrenched back her calm again.
Her capital was in her brain, and no one could take that from her. If she herself did not let that poisonous anger sap it....
Suddenly a tap came at the door. Regina drew herself up, her whole body quivered.
"Yes," she answered, from her place by the window.
"Are you not coming down to dinner?" sounded in her elder sister's voice through the door.
"No, thank you; not this evening."
"Why? Aren't you well?"
"I have rather a headache. Do not wait for me, nor send me anything up. I shall be better without it."
"Oh ... well, father sent me up to say you were not to feel distressed about your pictures, that he had no objection to your learning to paint, if you wanted to and showed talent. It was your style he disliked, and if you would give up your red skies and things, and take simple, proper subjects—country cottages and village greens, you know, that sort of thing—he would arrange for you to have lessons from Mr. Andrews, the drawing-master at the Kindergarten."