n out stuff yourself some day."

She scarcely knew how to take the word "stuff." Vaguely she surmised
it to be professional vernacular.

She admitted shyly that she cared for nothing so much as drawing, that
she longed for instruction, but that such a dream was hopeless.

At first he did not comprehend that poverty barred the way to her; he
urged her to cultivate her talent, bestowed advice concerning the Art
League, boarding houses, studios, ways, means, and ends, until she
felt obliged to tell him how far beyond her means such magic
splendours lay.

He remained silent, sorry for her, thinking also that the chances were
against her having any particular talent, consoling a heart that was
unusually sympathetic and tender with the conclusion that this girl
would be happier here in Brookhollow than scratching around the
purlieus of New York to make both ends meet.

"It's a tough deal," he remarked abruptly. "--I mean this art stuff.
You work like the dickens and kick your heels in ante-rooms. If they
take your stuff they send you back to alter it or redraw it. _I_ don't
know how anybody makes a living at it--in the beginning."

"Don't _you_?"

"I? No." He reddened; but she could not notice it in the moonlight.
"No," he repeated; "I have an allowance from my father. I'm new at it
yet."

"Couldn't a man--a girl--support herself by drawing pictures for
magazines?" she inquired tremulously.

"Oh, well, of course there are some who have arrived--and they manage
to get on. Some even make wads, you know."

"W-wads?" she repeated, mystified.

"I mean a lot of money. There's that girl on the _Star_, Jean
Throssel, who makes all kinds of wealth, they say, out of her spidery,
filmy girls in ringlets and cheesecloth dinner gowns."

"Oh!"

"Yes, Jean Throssel, and that Waythorne girl, Belinda Waythorne, you
know--does all that stuff for _The Looking Glass_--futurist graft, no
mouths on her people--she makes _hers_, I understand."

It was rather difficult for Rue to follow him amid the vernacular
mazes.

"Then, of course," he continued, "men like Alexander Fairless and
Philip Lightwood who imitates him, make fortunes out of their drawing.
I could name a dozen, perhaps. But the rest--hard sledding, Miss
Carew!"

"Is it _very_ hard?"

"Well, I don't know what on earth I'd do if dad didn't back me as his
fancy."

"A father ought to, if he can afford it."

"Oh, I'll pay my way some day. It's in me. I feel it; I k