“The thing that’s meant for her will slap her in the face soon,” Sylvia comforted herself.  “And she’s such a wonder!”

But if Sylvia refrained from nudging Joan on her course, even to the extent of opening her eyes to sign-posts, others were not so obliging.  Into Sylvia’s studio youth, in its various forms of expression, floated naturally.  Sylvia attracted women more than men, but her girl friends brought their male comrades with them and everybody was welcome to anything that Sylvia had.  Fortunately most of the young people were honestly striving to earn their living; they were sweetly, proudly unafraid, but when they relaxed and played they made Joan’s eyes widen, until she discovered that they often dressed their ideas, as they did themselves, rather startlingly while adhering, privately, to a respectability that they refused to make public.

They were, on the whole, a joyous lot belonging to that new class which causes older and more conservative folk to hold their breath as people do who watch children walking near a precipice and dare not call out for fear of worse danger.

The women attracted and interested Joan immensely.  The men amazed her.

“You see,” she confided to Sylvia, “the men seem like a new sex—­neither men nor women.”

Sylvia stood off regarding her work—­she smiled happily and replied: 

“They are, dear lamb.  The girls will all, eventually, put on; fill up”—­Sylvia added a dab of clay to a doubtful curve—­“but men, when they chip off from the approved design, look like nothing on earth but daubs!”

“Yes,” Joan added, “that’s what I mean.”  Then, with a thoughtful puckering of the brows, “the girls will be women, somehow, but what will become of these—­this new sex, Syl?”

Sylvia was tense as she eyed her work.  She answered vaguely: 

“Some of them will crawl up, and do things and justify themselves, the others will——­”

“Will what, Syl?”—­for Sylvia was moving like a panther upon her prey—­her prey being the small figure on the pedestal.

“Do this—­or have it done for them!” and at this the offending clay was dashed to atoms.

“Failure!” breathed Sylvia—­“mess!”

Then with characteristic quickness she began a new design.  Joan watched her and caught a sudden insight.  She realized what it was that marked Sylvia for success.  Presently she asked musingly: 

“Does any one ever marry these—­these men, Syl?”

“Heavens, no!  They only play with them; don’t get confused on that line, lamb.”

“Don’t worry about me, Syl.  I don’t even want to play with them.  Syl, I do not think I shall ever marry.  I’m like Aunt Dorrie, but if I ever should marry it would be something to help one grip life, not something to—­to—­well, haul along!”

Sylvia turned and eyed Joan.

“My pet lamb,” she remarked, “you are all right!  Make sure that no one side-tracks you—­give them half, but no more.  And, Joan, run along now, child, and get dinner.”