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 rately went on sorting letters. She cleared her throat.

'Miss Gatherall has had her letters left for her here. I must arrange for them to go to her at Roxbury. She has a lovely soul.'

'But—'

'Now, Lanice, I do not want to discuss Mr. Fox or his degrading magazines. I can't understand how you can turn to such opportunities as he offers. I was educating you to be a great artist, not to draw fashion plates for Mr. Fox.'

'Oh, Pauline, I know, but I'm not an artist, not really. It isn't in me. I realized it all last night. When Mr. Fox asked me to go to work for him, I knew that was as far as I could ever go with my brush. I've never painted anything wonderful; anyway, I'd so much rather write. Perhaps I may really develop talent in that field.'

'Well,' said Pauline, slapping the papers down on the table, 'if you can't decide what you do want to do, I'll tell you now you will never do anything.' From somewhere she produced a dingy reticule and snapped it open and shut viciously. Her eyes narrowed and her voice grew hard and logical. 'If it is writing that you want to do, what good is it to draw fashion plates for Mr. Fox? That's neither art nor literature.'

'Perhaps he will let me write for him, not merely stories for 'Hearth and Home,' but thoughtful articles to be printed in his 'Journal,' I might accomplish a world of good. I might...'

'Never!' blazed Pauline. 'He would not think a