The artist paused and laughed softly.

"The same?" the girl asked incredulously.

"Certainly. Mine is based on intelligence,
however--yours on blind instinct perverted and twisted
by the idiotic fiction you read morning, noon and
night."

"I don't see it," Mary answered emphatically.
"Your ideal is fame, achievement, the applause of the
world--mine just a home and a baby----"

Jane laughed softly.

"And that's all you know about me?"

"Isn't it true?"

"You've been in this room five years, haven't you?"
the older girl asked musingly.

"Yes----"

"And though you've kept your lamp trimmed and
burning, you haven't yet seen a man whom you could
recognize as your equal."

"I'm only twenty-four."