You
see, about men: Ought one to marry, or ought one to take a lover? They
say you can't be a perfect artist till you've felt passion. But, then,
if you marry, that means mutton over again, and perhaps babies, and
perhaps the wrong man after all. Ugh! But then, on the other hand, I
don't want to be raffish. I hate raffish people--I simply hate them.
What do you think? It's awfully difficult, isn't it?"
Gyp, perfectly grave, answered:
"That sort of thing settles itself. I shouldn't bother beforehand."
Miss Daphne Wing buried her perfect chin deeper in her hands, and said
meditatively:
"Yes; I rather thought that, too; of course I could do either now. But,
you see, I really don't care for men who are not distinguished. I'm sure
I shall only fall in love with a really distinguished man. That's what
you did--isn't it?--so you MUST understand. I think Mr. Fiorsen is
wonderfully distinguished."
Sunlight, piercing the shade, suddenly fell warm on Gyp's neck where
her blouse ceased, and fortunately stilled the medley of emotion and
laughter a little lower down. She continued to look gravely at Daphne
Wing, who resumed:
"Of course, Mother would have fits if I asked her such a question, and I
don't know what Father would do. Only it is important, isn't it? One may
go all wrong from the start; and I do really want to get on. I simply
adore my work.
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