."

His talk took hold of Bertha's imagination--not because she cared to see
Chicago adorned, but because he was so singularly altruistic in his
concernments. That a man should live to make the world more beautiful
was a wondrous discovery for her. He was not specially troubled about
the physical welfare or the morals of the average citizen, but the
city's grossness, its willingness to perpetuate ugly forms, rasped him,
angered him.

She was eager to tell him of her own change of view, but waited till
their ride was over and they were seated in the studio and a moment's
private conversation was possible. Tingling with the stimulus of his
fragmentary exclamations, she impulsively began: "If I were a poor girl
who wanted to earn a living in the world, what would you advise me to
do?"

"Get married!" His answer was jocular, but, observing her displeasure,
he added: "I'm sorry I said that in just that tone, but at the same time
I really mean it. A woman can do other things, but marry she must if she
is to fulfil her place in the world--and be happy."

She was balked and disappointed, he perceived, and he was forced to go
further: "I certainly wouldn't advise any girl to study painting or
sculpture in the hope of making a living by it. The only side of art
that isn't hopelessly out of the running is the decorative--home
decoration is a sure and worthy profession. People don't feel keen need
of sculpture, but they do like pretty walls and nice furniture. I know
several highly successful women decorators--but I wouldn't advise that
work for any one as an easy way to make a living, for the decorative
sense is either a gift at birth or acquired after hard study."

"Do they teach it over there?" She nodded towards the lake. "I liked it
over there," she said, wistfully. "You see I didn't get much of a show
at school. I began to stay out to help mother when I was fourteen. I
missed a whole lot. I'd kind o' like to make it up now if I could."

Moss was eager to probe a little deeper. "Your life is thrillingly
romantic to us--the kind of thing we read of. Congdon writes that you
have a superb home. I should think you'd hate to leave it, even for a
visit."

Her hands strained together as if in resistance to an impulse of
pleading; then she answered: "Yes--but then, you see, it isn't really
mine--it's the Captain's."

"Yours by marriage."

"That's what people say--but I don't know. Sometimes I think I have no
right to any p