observed; and this time he did not look at me. 'The best writers, as the best painters and sculptors, have been imitative in the beginning. They caught on to the wings of others, before they found their own strength, and could fly alone. If you want to fly alone at first, you'll tumble.'
"I thought this rude; but I answered, I hope with quiet dignity, 'It is because I know I can't fly alone, that I am going to Monsieur D———'s atelier. If I find that I am no better than a Chinese, I shall give it up.'
"'Ah! You will do right—if you are no better than a Chinese,' he said dryly.
"Miss Hatty laughed. 'We can't all give it up, though we may be no better than Chinese. We must live. After all, an imitation—Corot or Daubigny—may give some benighted persons pleasure?'
"I held my peace. I wondered whether the dear woman's green-and-violet shadows could give any human being pleasure. Her brother did not say much more. Having finished his tea, he rose and left the room, and soon afterwards his sister and I strolled into the Luxembourg Gardens, where we sat and watched the merry, shrill-voiced children playing with their balloons from the 'Bon Marché,' and the white-capped Norman bonnes with their broad streamers hovering over them, in the striped sunshine and shadow of the trees."
