"Oh, ours is the true profession—Biddy's and mine," Nick broke out, setting up his canvas; "the career of liberty and peace, of charming long mornings, spent in a still north light in the contemplation, and I may even say in the company, of the amiable and the beautiful."
"That certainly is the case when Biddy comes to see you," Peter returned.
Biddy smiled at him. "I come every day. Anch' io son pittore! I encourage Nick awfully."
"It's a pity I'm not a martyr; she would bravely perish with me," Nick said.
"You are—you are a martyr—when people say such odious things!" the girl cried. "They do say them. I've heard many more than I've repeated to you."
"It's you yourself then, indignant and sympathetic, who are the martyr," observed Peter, who wanted greatly to be kind to her.
"Oh, I don't care!" she answered, colouring in response to this; and she continued, to Peter: "Don't you think one can do as much good by painting great works of art as by—as by what papa used to do? Don't you think art is necessary to the happiness, to the greatness of a people? Don't you think it's manly and honourable? Do you think a passion for it is a thing to be ashamed of? Don't you think the artist—the conscientious, the serious one—is as distinguished a member of society as any one else?"
Peter and Nick looked at each other and laughed at the way she had got up her subject, and Nick asked his visitor if she didn't express it all in perfection. "I delight in general
