a cock pheasant rising up suddenly out of the yew hedges, and,
beguiled by the beauty of the trees, they passed on slowly, pausing
to think what a splendid sight a certain wild cherry must be in the
spring-time. At the end of the wood Owen returned to the subject of
their conversation.

"Yes, it is strange that an actress should give up her art."

"But, Owen, it isn't so strange in my case as in any other; for you
know I was always a hothouse flower. You took me away to Paris and
had me trained regardless of expense, and with your money it was
easy to get an engagement."

"My money had nothing to do with your engagements."

"Perhaps not; but I only sang when it pleased me; I could always say,
'Well, my good man, go to So-and-so, she will sing for you any parts
you please'; but I can only sing the parts I like."

"You think, then, that if you had lived the life of a real actress,
working your way up from the bottom, what has happened wouldn't have
happened; is that what you mean?"

"It is impossible for me to answer you. One would have to live one's
life over again."

"I suppose no one will ever know how much depends upon the gift we
bring into the world with us, and how much upon circumstances," and
Owen compared the gift to the father's seed and circumstances to the
mother's womb.