"Life has been--curious. My mother was bedridden. My childhood and
girlhood were passed caring for her. That is all I ever did until--a
year ago," she added, her voice falling so low he could scarcely hear
her.

"She died, then?"

"A year ago last February."

"You went to school. You must have made friends there."

"I went to a public school for a year. After that mother taught me."

"She must have been extremely cultivated."

The girl nodded, looking absently at the cloth. Then, glancing up:

"I wonder whether you will understand me when I tell you why I decided
to ask employment of artists."

"I'll try to," he said, smiling.

"It was an intense desire to be among cultivated people--if only for a
few hours. Besides, I had read about artists; and their lives seemed so
young, so gay, so worth living--please don't think me foolish and
immature, Mr. Neville--but I was so stifled, so cut off from such
people, so uninspired, so--so starved for a little gaiety--and I needed
youthful companionship--surroundings where people of my own age and
intelligence sometimes entered--and I had never had it--"