“Possibly not; yet had you been my sister I should have said the same.”

“Undoubtedly, for you view this matter entirely from the standpoint of the polite world, from the outlook of social respectability, where self rules every action with the question, ‘What will others say?’ So should I two years ago, but conditions have somewhat changed my views.  Professional necessity can never afford to be quite so punctilious, cannot always choose the nature of its environments:  the nurse must care for the injured, however disagreeable the task; the newspaper woman must cover her assignment, although it takes her amid filth; and the actress must thoroughly assume her character, in spite of earlier prejudices.  The woman who deliberately chooses this life must, sooner or later, adjust herself to its unpleasant requirements; and if her womanhood remain true, the shallow criticism of others cannot greatly harm her.  I had three alternatives in this case—­I could selfishly accept my handful of money, go to Denver, and leave these other helpless people here to suffer; I could accept assistance from you, a comparative stranger; or I could aid them and earn my own way by assuming an unpleasant task.  I chose the last, and my sense of right upholds me.”

Winston watched her earnestly as she spoke, his gray eyes brightening with unconscious appreciation, his face gradually losing its harshness of disapproval.  A spirit of independence always made quick appeal to his favor, and this girl’s outspoken defiance of his good opinion set his heart throbbing.  Back of her outward quietness of demeanor there was an untamed spirit flashing into life.

“We may never exactly agree as to this question of proprieties,” he acknowledged slowly.  “Yet I can partially comprehend your position as viewed professionally.  Am I, then, to understand that your future is definitely decided upon?  You really purpose dedicating your life to dramatic art?”

She hesitated, her quickly lowered eyes betraying a moment of embarrassment.

“Yes,” she answered finally.  “I am beginning to find myself, to believe in myself.”

“You expect to find complete satisfaction in this way?”

“Complete?  Oh, no; one never does that, you know, unless, possibly, the ideals are very low; but more than I can hope to find elsewhere.  Even now I am certainly happier in the work than I have been for years.”  She looked up at him quickly, her eyes pleading.  “It is not the glitter, the sham, the applause,” she hastened to explain, “but the real work itself, that attracts and rewards me—­the hidden labor of fitly interpreting character—­the hard, secret study after details.  This has become a positive passion, an inspiration.  I may never become the perfected artist of which I sometimes dream, yet it must be that I have within me a glimmering of that art.  I feel it, and cannot remain false to it.”

“Possibly love may enter to change your plans,” he ventured to suggest, influenced by the constantly changing expression of her face.