’"But now,” I said to her warmly, “you have got free; or, rather, you are on the way to freedom.”

’She thought a little bit without speaking, her chin resting on her hand, her elbow on her knee.  We were passing the great red-brown mass of the Armenian convent.  She seemed to be drinking in the dazzling harmonies of blue and warm brown and pearly light.  When she did speak again it was very slowly, as though she were trying to give words to a number of complex impressions.

’"Yes,” she said; “it seems to me that I am different; but I can’t tell exactly how or why.  I see all sorts of new possibilities, new meanings everywhere:  that is one half of it!  But the other, and the greater, half is—­how to make all these new feelings and any new knowledge which may come to me tell on my art.”  And then she changed altogether with one of those delightful swift transformations of hers, and her face rippled over with laughter.  “At present the chief result of the difference, whatever it may be, seems to be to make me most unmanageable at home.  I am for ever disagreeing with my people, saying I can’t do this and I won’t do that.  I am getting to enjoy having my own way in the most abominable manner.”  And then she caught my hand, that was holding hers, between both her own, and said half laughing and half in earnest—­

’"Did you ever realise that I don’t know any single language besides my own—­not even French?  That I can’t read any French book or any French play?”

’"Well,” I said, half laughing too, “it is very astonishing.  And you know it can’t go on if you are to do what I think you will do.  French you positively must learn, and learn quickly.  I don’t mean to say that we haven’t good plays and a tradition of our own; but for the moment France is the centre of your art, and you cannot remain at a distance from it!  The French have organised their knowledge; it is available for all who come.  Ours is still floating and amateurish—­”

’And so on.  You may imagine it, my dear Eustace; I spare you any more of it verbatim.  After I had talked away for a long time and brought it all back to the absolute necessity that she should know French and become acquainted with French acting and French dramatic ideals, she pulled me up in the full career of eloquence, by demanding with a little practical air, a twinkle lurking somewhere in her eyes—­

’"Explain to me, please; how is it to be done?”

’"Oh,” I said, “nothing is easier.  Do you know anything at all?”

’"Very little.  I once had a term’s lessons at Kingston.”

’"Very well, then,” I went on, enjoying this little comedy of a neglected education; “get a French maid, a French master, and a novel:  I will provide you with Consuelo and a translation to-morrow.”

’"As for the French maid,” she answered dubiously, shaking her head, “I don’t know.  I expect my old black woman that I brought with me from Jamaica would ill-treat her—­perhaps murder her.  But the master can be managed and the novel.  Will none of you laugh at me if you see me trailing a French grammar about?”