and even spoke some of them aloud. "No, I haven't forgotten you,
Mrs. Russell. I remember you quite pleasantly, in fact. You
were a Miss Palmer, I recall, in those funny old days. Very kind
of you, I'm shaw. I appreciate your eagerness to do something
for me in your own little home. As you say, a reception WOULD
renew my acquaintanceship with many old friends--but I'm shaw
you won't mind my mentioning that I don't find much inspiration
in these provincials. I really must ask you not to press me. An
artist's time is not her own, though of course I could hardly
expect you to understand----"

Thus Alice illuminated the dull time; but she retired from the
interview with her father still manfully displaying an outward
cheerfulness, while depression grew heavier within, as if she had
eaten soggy cake. Her father knew nothing whatever of the stage,
and she was aware of his ignorance, yet for some reason his
innocently skeptical amusement reduced her bright project almost
to nothing. Something like this always happened, it seemed; she
was continually making these illuminations, all gay with gildings
and colourings; and then as soon as anybody else so much as
glanced at them--even her father, who loved her--the pretty
designs were stricken with a desolating pallor. "Is this LIFE?"
Alice wondered, not doubting that the question was original and
all her own. "Is it life to spend your time imagining things
that aren't so, and never will be? Beautiful things happen to
other people; why should I be the only one they never CAN happen
to?"

The mood lasted overnight; and was still upon her the next
afternoon when an errand for her father took her down-town.