I cleared all my expenses and got initiated into the business without a fee in the bargain.

Praed. But bless my heart and soul, Miss Warren, do you call that discovering art?

Vivie.  Wait a bit.  That wasn’t the beginning.  I went up to town on an invitation from some artistic people in Fitzjohn’s Avenue:  one of the girls was a Newnham chum.  They took me to the National Gallery—­

Praed [approving] Ah!! [He sits down, much relieved].

Vivie [continuing]—­to the Opera—­

Praed [still more pleased] Good!

Vivie.—­and to a concert where the band played all the evening:  Beethoven and Wagner and so on.  I wouldn’t go through that experience again for anything you could offer me.  I held out for civility’s sake until the third day; and then I said, plump out, that I couldn’t stand any more of it, and went off to Chancery Lane.  N o w you know the sort of perfectly splendid modern young lady I am.  How do you think I shall get on with my mother?

Praed [startled] Well, I hope—­er—­

Vivie.  It’s not so much what you hope as what you believe, that I want to know.

Praed. Well, frankly, I am afraid your mother will be a little disappointed.  Not from any shortcoming on your part, you know:  I don’t mean that.  But you are so different from her ideal.

Vivie.  Her what?!

Praed. Her ideal.

Vivie.  Do you mean her ideal of me?

Praed. Yes.

Vivie.  What on earth is it like?

Praed. Well, you must have observed, Miss Warren, that people who are dissatisfied with their own bringing-up generally think that the world would be all right if everybody were to be brought up quite differently.  Now your mother’s life has been—­er—­I suppose you know—­

Vivie.  Don’t suppose anything, Mr Praed.  I hardly know my mother.  Since I was a child I have lived in England, at school or at college, or with people paid to take charge of me.  I have been boarded out all my life.  My mother has lived in Brussels or Vienna and never let me go to her.  I only see her when she visits England for a few days.  I don’t complain:  it’s been very pleasant; for people have been very good to me; and there has always been plenty of money to make things smooth.  But don’t imagine I know anything about my mother.  I know far less than you do.

Praed [very ill at ease] In that case—­[He stops, quite at a loss.  Then, with a forced attempt at gaiety] But what nonsense we are talking!  Of course you and your mother will get on capitally. [He rises, and looks abroad at the view].  What a charming little place you have here!

Vivie [unmoved] Rather a violent change of subject, Mr Praed.  Why won’t my mother’s life bear being talked about?

Praed. Oh, you mustn’t say that.  Isn’t it natural that I should have a certain delicacy in talking to my old friend’s daughter about her behind her back?  You and she will have plenty of opportunity of talking about it when she comes.