ght be able to
get a position on one of the newspapers.

"Don't think of it," said Bert. "If you want to keep a sane, sweet
outlook on humanity, don't examine it too closely. That's what we have
to do in the newspaper game, and that's why we're all cynics.
Shakespeare said 'All the world's a stage,' and the same might have
been said of the press. The show looks pretty good from the pit, but
when you get behind the scenes and see the make-up, and all the strings
that are pulled--and who pulls them--well, it makes you suspicious of
everything. You no longer accept a surface view; you are always
looking for the hidden motive below. Keep out of it."

"But I must earn a living," Irene protested, "and I'm not a
stenographer, nor much of anything else. I wasn't brought up to be
useful, except with a view to superintending a household--not
supporting it."

"Ever contemplate marriage?" said Miss Morrison, with disconcerting
frankness.

The colour rose in Irene's cheeks, but she knew that her friend was
discussing a serious matter seriously. "Why, yes," she admitted. "I
have contemplated it; in fact, I am contemplating it. That's one of
the reasons I want to start earning my living. When I marry I want to
marry as a matter of choice--not because it's the only way out."

"Now you're talking," said Bert. "And most of us girls who marry as a
matter of choice--don't marry. Perhaps I'm too cynical. I suppose
there are some men who would make good husbands--if you could find
them. But I've seen a few, the rough and the smooth, and I've only
known one man from whom a proposal would set me thinking. And he'll
never propose to me--not now. Not since Miss Hardy came west."

"Oh," said Irene, slowly. "I'm--I'm so sorry." . . .

"It's all right," said Bert, looking out of the window. "Just another
of life's little bumps. We get used to them--in time. But you want a
job. Let me see; you draw, don't you?"

"Just for pastime. I can't earn a living that way."

"I'm not so sure. Perhaps not with art in the abstract. You must
commercialize it. Don't shy at that word. Believe me, all art is
pretty well commercialized in these times. Our literary men are
writing advertisements instead of poetry and getting more for it. And
if you, on the one hand, can make a picture of the Rockies, which you
can't sell, and on the other can make a picture of a pair of shoes,
which you can sell, which, as a woman of good sense,