Her father laughed heartily, but she continued with perfect gravity—
"I shall live with you, here—we two alone; only I should like to go to London for a time, and learn to paint; and then I shall come back here and paint magnificent pictures. You smile, father. Why not? Why shouldn't I become famous? There was Elisabetta Sirani—and Angelica Kauffmann; and I'm sure I could paint in time better than her."
"I say! where's your grammar, Bessie?" laughed her father. "When I went to school, I was taught to say, 'better than she;' but I suppose that is obsolete. Well, I am glad to see you are ambitious. Ambition of the right sort—the ambition to excel in whatever you undertake—is a good thing. And you are not too humble," he added, with an amused glance at her dark, glowing face; "which, perhaps, is better than having no confidence in yourself, and therefore no decision."
"You don't think I am conceited, father, do you?"
"No, I don't. But it seems to me you have an enormous belief in your own capacity—that is different from conceit—and it may be, you know, that you are mistaken. So many are. The gift 'to see ourselves as others see us' is given to few."
"I am one of the few," she said quickly. "I know I am ugly and awkward. I know I am a fool at mathematics, and can hardly do a rule-of-three sum. I am sometimes shaky in my grammar (as you see); and I have no ear for music—none whatever. It is of no use my continuing to learn the piano; I shall never play decently. But I understand what I read. I am rather quick at languages;
