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 aren’t convincing if they’re too true to life. Let me see——another attempt at realism. But it’s only photography—not portraiture.”

“What a lot of disagreeable things you’ve said,” sighed Emily.

“It might be a nice world if nobody ever said a disagreeable thing, but it would be a dangerous one,” retorted Mr. Carpenter. “You told me you wanted criticism, not taffy. However, here’s a bit of taffy for you. I kept it for the last. is comparatively good and if I wasn’t afraid of ruining you I’d say it was absolutely good. Ten years from now you can rewrite it and make something of it. Yes, ten years—don’t screw up your face, Jade. You have talent—and you’ve got a wonderful feeling for words—you get the inevitable one every time—that’s a priceless thing. But you have some vile faults, too. Those cursed italics—forswear them, Jade, forswear them. And your imagination needs a curb when you get away from realism.”

“It’s to have one now,” said Emily, gloomily.

She told him of her compact with Aunt Elizabeth. Mr. Carpenter nodded.

“Excellent.”

“Excellent!” echoed Emily blankly.

“Yes. It’s just what you need. It will teach you restraint and economy. Stick to facts for three years and see what you can make of them. Leave the realm of imagination severely alone and confine yourself to ordinary life.”

“There isn’t any such thing as ordinary life,” said Emily.

Mr. Carpenter looked at her for a moment.

“You're right—there isn’t,” he said slowly. “But one wonders a little how you know it. Well, go on—go on—walk in your chosen path—and ‘thank whatever gods there be’ that you’re free to walk it.”

“Cousin Jimmy says nobody can be free who has a thousand ancestors.”