"It made me think of your mother's sister, your Aunt Flora, that
died when you were little," he said. "She was always telling how
she was going on the stage, and talking about how she was certain
she'd make a great actress, and all so on; and one day your
mother broke out and said she ought 'a' gone on the stage,
herself, because she always knew she had the talent for it--and,
well, they got into kind of a spat about which one'd make the
best actress. I had to go out in the hall to laugh!"

"Maybe you were wrong," Alice said, gravely. "If they both felt
it, why wouldn't that look as if there was talent in the family?
I've ALWAYS thought----"

"No, dearie," he said, with a final chuckle. "Your mother and
Flora weren't different from a good many others. I expect ninety
per cent. of all the women I ever knew were just sure they'd be
mighty fine actresses if they ever got the chance. Well, I guess
it's a good thing; they enjoy thinking about it and it don't do
anybody any harm."

Alice was piqued. For several days she had thought almost
continuously of a career to be won by her own genius. Not that
she planned details, or concerned herself with first steps; her
picturings overleaped all that. Principally, she saw her name
great on all the bill-boards of that unkind city, and herself,
unchanged in age but glamorous with fame and Paris clothes,
returning in a private car. No doubt the pleasantest development
of her vision was a dialogue with Mildred; and this became so
real that, as she projected it, Alice assumed the proper
expressions for both parties to it, formed words with her lips,