“You have great talent,” said the artist, “but it needs cultivation. After two or three years' severe training you may do something.”
Then Clytie asked him the question that had been burning her heart for two days.
“Do you think I shall ever be able to earn my own living?”
“You might do that now, if you chose, and had patience,” he replied.
“How?”
“By book illustrating.”
“But I want to become a great artist.”
“Doubtless. Most of us do. You may if you try hard, and love art for art's sake. But,” he added, looking at her keenly—“there always is a 'but,' Miss Davenant.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked quickly.
“Parce que, as the French say—begging your pardon.”