"I thought you were something," answered the girl. "I'm an artist. Or,
rather, was," she added after a pause.

"Why did you give it up?" asked Joan.

"Oh, I haven't given it up, not entirely," the girl answered. "I can
always get a couple of sovereigns for a sketch, if I want it, from one or
another of the frame-makers. And they can generally sell them for a
fiver. I've seen them marked up. Have you been long in London?"

"No," answered Joan. "I'm a Lancashire lass."

"Curious," said the girl, "so am I. My father's a mill manager near
Bolton. You weren't educated there?"

"No," Joan admitted. "I went to Rodean at Brighton when I was ten years
old, and so escaped it. Nor were you," she added with a smile, "judging
from your accent."

"No," answered the other, "I was at Hastings--Miss Gwyn's. Funny how we
seem to have always been near to one another. Dad wanted me to be a
doctor. But I'd always been mad about art."

Joan had taken a liking to the girl. It was a spiritual, vivacious face
with frank eyes and a firm mouth; and the voice was low and strong.

"Tell me," she said, "what interfered with it?" Unconsciously she was
leaning forward, her chin supported by her hands. Their faces were very
near to one another.