E. Nesbit

“ WHEN Daphne promised to sit for the sketch club (in that white and gold gown) Doris had, for the moment, been forgotten. A pang of remorse pierced sharply the elder sister’s heart when she had closed the door on that comb-playing company and found herself alone with the bare attic, and the soft regular breathing of the sleeping Dormouse.
“Life is very difficult,” she told herself, standing rigid in her gold and white and the spacious bareness of her kingdom. “If the Dormouse is going to feel like a hindrance—that means there’s something wrong.” ”

“ Daphne hastened to say.
“I suppose the world is full of princes—to Doris,” said Claud.
“No, it isn’t,” the child insisted, “only you and the one we met in the train, the story-telling one. I think he might be a prince, that black one, if he was to try very hard!”
“I don’t think he’ll ever try hard enough,” said Claud. “He doesn’t want to be a prince either. He wants to be an artist. And he is, confound him.”
“What he said about my drawings was true enough, though, wasn’t it? Doris says you’re a prince. Princes cannot lie—they’re like George Washington.” ”

“ That’s just it. If one cares one never does believe it. And there you are.”
“I hope,” said the girl who found men so interesting, “that it’s only art students who are so hateful.”
“Those two at the dance weren’t art students. They were just ordinary college students. Don’t you trust any of them. That’s all.”
“If you mean don’t let them kiss me,” said Daphne loftily, “you needn’t be afraid. I’m not likely to.”
“You see,” the other went on, slowly, “I didn’t understand when I first went to the Slade. I thought a kiss meant—everything it ought to mean. I don’t want anyone to hurt you like that.” ”

“ It was as well that she did, for as she spoke Doris, hastily swallowing an incredibly large mouthful of cake, said:
“They aren’t any old friend’s drawings. They’re Daffy’s very own—and they’re perfectly beautiful. So there.”
“I’m sorry,” said the man, “that I said they were rubbish. But they are.”
Daphne recognised the voice of truth.
“But if I were to study?” she said, a new note of respect in her voice, “to study very hard?”
“You really want to know? Well, I’m afraid you’d never do the least bit of good if you studied from now till Doomsday. They’re no good at all. ”

“ And there Youth spoke of Age with all the cocksureness of Youth and all Youth’s inaccuracy. It was the next day that Daphne went through her portfolio of sketches, selected the least unworthy and spent a shilling on May’s “Press Guide.” Then, wearing her quietest hat and gown, with Doris in one hand and the sketches in the other, she went down into the City to call on editors. Someone had said last night that the only way to sell your stuff for magazines was to call on editors yourself. The students had talked enough when once it was realised that Daphne was not a prig but a dear. ”

“ Kcat—and may I put an extry K to pink —– to make it as pink as ever it can be? Oh, here’s someone come to ask us to tea again.”
“It’s only me, miss,” said the sailor-hatted charwoman. “It was only to ask you if you knew when Mr. Claud’ll be in, and where ’e is.”
“No, of course I don’t,” said Daphne. “Why should I?”
“Young ladies often does,” said Mrs. Delarue, “especially when cousins.”
“I’ll give him a message when he comes in,” said Daphne, “if you like.” ”

“ White-night-dressed, brushing out her red hair, she stiffened her limbs to rhyme with her new courage that sprang to life at the instance of that sleeping ball of soft related childhood. She would, whatever happened, she would be all in all to the child. She would be more patient, more resourceful. After all, there was the allowance. If she wrote to Cousin Jane—asked for Uncle Hamley’s address? ”