to refer
to them in her letters home.

Rose arrived one morning at the Misses Stone's in a peculiarly excitable
and yet depressed frame of mind. She had not been to Mr. St. Foy's
classes that day; but Hester Jennings had known, the afternoon before, a
piece of unwelcome news which she thought fit to communicate to Rose in
the course of their morning walk, that ran so far in the same
direction. A group of peasants, with which Rose Millar had been taking a
great deal of pains, had been summarily condemned and dismissed by the
master. Rose waxed hot and restive under the sentence, and began to
dispute it vehemently, Hester defending it with equal vehemence, in what
she considered justice to Mr. St. Foy, on the ground of a lack of
dignity and repose in the central peasant. Hester was at that moment
tearing along a thoroughfare, and showing so little dignity and repose
not only in her gait, but in her "loud," ill-assorted garments, that, as
frequently happened, to Rose's vexation, several people among the
passers-by turned and looked after them. Hester to talk of a want of
dignity and repose! It was like Satan reproving sin.

At the same time, while it is hard to admit the justness of a criticism
unaffected by the inconsistency of the person who utters it and of the
circumstances under which it is uttered, Rose was perfectly well aware
that Hester Jennings was as excellent a judge of dignity and repose,
apart from her personal proceedings, as any artist could be.

Rose did not retaliate, save in self-defence. Hester was her senior in
art-knowledge still more than in years. She was not her sister to be
treated without ceremony, and pretty deep down in Rose's girlish heart
there was a respectful tolerance, an approach to tender reverence, for
the turbulent-minded, chaotic, gifted creature beside her. Still Rose's
equanimity was considerably disturbed.

The unruffled serenity of the Misses Stone's domain, far from restoring
Rose's composure, seemed to smite her by contrast with an intolerable
sense of personal reproach, and to goad her into rebellion. Rose was
conscious of her variable spirits--the heritage of her years--getting
more and more uncertain, and of being wrought up to a perilously
high-strung pitch. She felt as if she were panting for liberty to
breathe, to express her discordant mood in some unconventional manner.

As it happened, the principal drawing-mistress, a highly decorous,
self-controlled young woman,