as nearly seven
when she arrived, and she had not touched her practising or her
preparation. For once Mrs. Patterson was really angry. She took Lesbia
into the drawing-room alone, and began to talk in the strained voice of
one who is putting a curb on her strong indignation.

"You don't seem to realize things," she said, during the course of what
was, after all, a scolding which Lesbia had brought on her own head.
"Here you are nearly sixteen and a half, and as childish as if you were
six. If you won't work and don't pass your exams what's going to happen
to you? I suppose you know you'll have to earn your own living? You
can't be anything of a teacher unless you get some proper
qualifications."

"_Must_ I be a teacher?" asked Lesbia desperately. "Couldn't I take up
Art instead?"

"Art!" (Mrs. Patterson's voice expressed a volume of scorn.) "Art!
That's the last thing in the world to depend upon. It's a most
precarious livelihood nowadays. Why it would probably be years before
you could sell a picture. Now don't be silly, Lesbia. Miss Tatham has
been very kind in helping you, and you owe it to her and to the school
to work your hardest. What's the use of beginning to cry? Do wipe your
eyes and be sensible."

But being sensible was just the last thing possible to Lesbia. She
rushed upstairs to her bedroom and went on crying. She did not go down
when the gong sounded, and Kitty, coming in search of her presently,
found her with one shoe on and one off, and her dress still unchanged.
She answered all her cousin's arguments by torrents of tears, till Kitty
lost patience and went away.

"Leave her to herself," decided Mrs. Patterson, sending up Lesbia's
supper, and her home lesson books, upon a tray; "it's half temper, and
she's better alone."

Joan looked rather sympathetically in the direction of the stairs--she
had a warm corner for Lesbia--but the two sisters were starting for a
concert and could not wait to comfort anybody. They did not take the
matter seriously. To Lesbia it was desperate trouble. From the flutter
of joy of the inspiring afternoon she had dropped into a chaos of
despair. For the first time she began to look ahead, and she seemed to
see her life stretching an endless bleak vista of perpetual teaching.

"I _hate_ teaching," she sobbed, clenching her fists.

She had not known before that she disliked the prospect so much. The
grind of it appalled her. She almost began to wish she had gone to
Ca