."

"Is the time wasted?" she asked.

"No. Work is never wasted, and of course you are destined to write."

"Am I?" she cried. The quality in her voice, of rapture and strain, made
him look at her.

"My child, how you care!" he said, laying his hand on hers.

She nodded, with wet eyes.

"I have been profoundly interested in the things you gave me to read. I
want more, much more. There are certain undoubted qualities--an
astonishing vocabulary, a fine sense of words. You are a _gourmet_ for
choice words, rich words, words fat with meaning. You've a pretty good
sense of form. I can fairly analyze your literary diet. 'Ha, now she's
devouring Moliere,' I would say to myself, or, 'she's overeating the
Russians.'"

Jane laughed happily.

"As a specialist, I must say that you are overfed and undernourished.
You read too much and live too little. You look out on life from this
white cell. Do you see what I mean?"

"Yes, yes; but what can I do?"

"We must do something. The true artist speaks for the age in which he
lives. There is no room for the ascetic point of view in our world
to-day--this is a world of the senses. Like it or not, it's true. We
measure all pleasure, all experience, by their aesthetic or emotional
value. We go back to the very sources of art to find a fiercer reaction.
We have Piccabia, Matisse crudity gone stark; we have dissonance in
harmony--DeBussey and Strauss; the Russians with their barbaric dances.
We have the Irish renaissance in drama, going back to the peasant for
primitive emotions. We have the bloodiest war in all times; we are
primitive savages in our greed for lust and power, just as we are
supermen in devising ways of exquisite, torturing death for our enemies.
We are the age of the senses, my friend; we brook no denial of the flesh
and its appetites."

"I understand what you mean; I know it to be true; but how can I have a
part in life, when perforce, I am just an onlooker?" she asked
earnestly.

"We will find a way. We must open the door of the nunnery, and lead
Sister Jane into the world of deeds, of fight and lose, heartache and
some rare joys. Do you want to come, Sister Jane?"

She turned her head and looked into space beyond her window before she
answered.

"I shall miss the sanctuary, the quiet, and my holy saints," she said,
her hand sweeping the books, "but I want to come out; for a long time,
Mr. Christiansen, I've wanted so to come out."

"Good. We will begin w