And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. It was only a few months ago that I told you you must come to London, and you only laughed at me. Her eyes were soft and grave, and there was the faintest of smiles upon her resolute lips. You want music. She dropped beside the chair, sat cross-legged, and laughed at the futile jade-coloured wall. Very slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head. A fortnight passed, then a month. ‘You do not know how I am like my mother. Books! Aren't they wonderful?" The blind alley of life stretching out before her, with its secret doorways and hidden menaces; and she was unconcerned.
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