"Perhaps you can't," allowed her adviser magnanimously. "On second
thought, it won't be necessary. You just go back--after powdering your
nose a little--and say that you've come to see the picture once more, or
that it's a fine day, or that competition is the life of trade, or
that--oh, anything! And, if he doesn't do the rest, I'll kill and
eat him."

"But, Cecily--"

"You _would_ be a patroness of Art. Now I've given you something real to
patronize. Don't you dare fail me." Suddenly the speaker gave herself
over to an access of mirth. "Heaven help that young man when he comes
to own up."

"Own up to what?"

"Never mind."

Having consumed a vain and repetitious half-hour in variations upon her
query, Bobbie gave it up and decided to find out for herself. It was
curiosity and curiosity alone (so she assured herself) that impelled her
to return for the last time (she assured herself of that, also) to
the attic.

A voice raised in vehement protest, echoing through the open door of the
studio, checked her on the landing below as she mounted.

"And you're actually going to let thirty-five thousand a year slip
through your fingers, just to pursue a fad?"