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Mama?”
    “Genuine contrition and humility to begin with, Jeanette; and we need to understand each other if we are to plan sensibly for your future.”
    “I’m going to paint, that’s all I know.”
    “Each of us has our favorite pastime.”
    “No, but art is much more than that for me, Mother! You always insist that women must think for themselves and do what they believe in, don’t you?”
    “That is hardly a practical answer, Jeanette.”
    “For me, it is. It means I have to go on with my training.”
    “What we’d like to do and what we can do are not always the same thing in this world.” Mrs. Palmer sighed and put a hand to her forehead. “Don’t protest, Jeanette. You are overwrought, and I’m tired. Go wash your face, and then I’ll take a bath. I have five hundred miles of grime to get rid of.”
    *   *   *
    The next morning at breakfast, Mr. Hendrick asked, “What’s on the schedule, ladies, eh?”
    “I have an excursion in mind!” announced Cousin Effie, making a quick gambit.
    “I was thinking of a turn around Washington Square to stretch my legs,” said Mrs. Palmer, mildly.
    “We can go there, too,” said Effie, “but first, Matthew, I want to show them the Tenth Street Studio Building. Jeanette is going to be an artist, you know, and—”
    “Are you, my dear?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “She aspires to be one,” said Mrs. Palmer.
    “Well, in that case, she must see the Studio Building—a most interesting enterprise. Only artists for tenants,” said Mr. Hendrick, “and very successful—they had to annex space next door a few years ago.”
    “And I happen to have made friends with a young man who has a studio in the annex!” said Effie.
    “Young man? Made friends with?” growled Mr. Hendrick, facetiously. “You’re a dark horse, Effie Pendergrast. Never a word till now, and you’ve been seeing a young man. I hope you have been well chaperoned.”
    “Go on, Matthew.” Cousin Effie squirmed. “It was at the Children’s Aid Society. Mr. Moyer teaches a mechanical drawing class there, but mostly he works in his studio. When I told him about Jeanette’s drawing my picture, he said we should drop by.”
    “Perhaps another day with a more specific invitation—” began Mrs. Palmer.
    “Oh, no need, Sarah. Nobody stands on ceremony these days,” said Mr. Hendrick, cheerfully. “Take my advice: Run along and see what there is to see.”
    After that, Mrs. Palmer could hardly refuse; but when they set out, Jeanette was all too well aware that her mother was in no mood to be pleased. It helped that they had several blocks to walk. Whatever she thought of their ultimate errand, Sarah Palmer valued her reputation at home for moving in the larger world and observed the city with interest.
    Down Fifth Avenue, Effie led the way briskly. On West Tenth Street, her step slowed as they approached No. 51. It was a large brick building, as wide as three of its neighbors put together and as high as four. Except for its unusually tall, wide windows, it might have suggested a warehouse or industrial workshops. Cousin Effie halted, clutching her handbag to her waist. “M-Mr. Moyer said to go in the front door,” she almost whispered.
    Mrs. Palmer waited with an ironic look of detachment. As the youngest and on probation, Jeanette hesitated; but then, not to be deprived of a look inside, she stepped up and held the door open.
    Under the high ceiling of the main lobby, several women were mounting prints, watercolors, and drawings onto movable screens. Jeanette wanted very much to investigate, but almost at once Effie found Mr. Moyer’s card on a directory board, and she had to follow her around to the annex.
    The outer, double doors of Mr. Moyer’s studio stood open and one of two inner doors had been left ajar. Effie peered around and knocked timorously.
    “Who is it?”
    “Mr. Moyer? It’s Miss Iphigenia Pendergrast. From the Children’s Aid Society. You said if . . . if ever I