as I said the other
night, if you want to do things for the children, that's another matter.
They're of an age when they can learn whatever anybody chooses to teach
them."

"Where are they now?" he asked. Upon the instant another plan began to
unfold itself in the background of his mind.

"They're both at Cheltenham, though they're at different places, of
course. I was recommended to send Julia there--one of our old customers
is a Governor, or whatever it's called--and he got special terms for
her. She was rather old, you know, to go to school, but he arranged it
very nicely for her--and there is such a good boys' college there,
it seemed the wisest thing to send Alfred too. Julia is to finish at
Christmas-time--and what I'm going to do with her afterward is more than
I know."

"Is she pretty?" the uncle of Julia enquired.

"She's very nice," the mother answered, with vague extenuation in her
tone. "I don't know about her looks--she varies so much. Sometimes I
think she's pretty--and then again I can't think it. She's got
good features, and she holds herself well, and she's very much the
lady--rather too much, I think, sometimes--but it all depends upon what
you call pretty. She's not tall, you know. She takes after her father's
family. The Dabneys are all little people."

Thorpe seemed not to care about the Dabneys. "And what's Alfred like?"
he asked.

"He wants to be an artist!" There was a perceptible note of apprehension
in the mother's confession.

"Well--why shouldn't he--if he's got a bent that way?" demanded Thorpe,
with reproof in his tone. "Did you want him to be a shop-keeper?"

"I should like to see him a doctor," she replied with dignity. "It was
always my idea for him."

"Well, it's no good--even as an idea," he told her. "Doctors are like
parsons--they can't keep up with the times. The age is outgrowing them.
Only the fakirs in either profession get anything out of it, nowadays.
It's all mystery and sleight-of-hand and the confidence trick--medicine
is--and if you haven't got just the right twist of the wrist, you're not
in it. But an artist stands on his merits. There is his work--done by
his own hands. It speaks for itself. There's no deception--it's easy
enough to tell whether it's good or bad. If the pictures are good,
people buy them. If they're bad, people don't buy them. Of course, it
won't matter to Alfred, financially speaking, whether his pictures sell
well or not. But probably he'd