“Pat!” Sylvia was in arms, “I will not hear of your actions with Mr. Burke.  They’re disgraceful.  You should be ashamed of them.”

“On the other hand,” Patricia always looked like a young saint, rather a wild one, to be sure, when she spoke of Burke, “I’m proud of my defiance of stupid limitations and fogyish ideals.  Here is a man, a corker, Joan, with a wife who, acting upon tribal instinct, never dreams that she may be set aside.  She travels the world over, foot loose, but with her little paw dug deep in her husband’s purse.  Here are two ducks of kiddies living with governesses and nurses over on a Jersey estate and pining for the higher female touch.  Here am I with a batch of verses going quite innocently into Mr. Burke’s office—­he’s an editor, you know—­and he buys my stuff and howls for more.  I grow white and thin providing more, and in weak moments show my beautiful inner soul to him.  He, being a gentleman and an understanding one, asks me out to Jersey, and those children just cram into the hungry corners of my life.  They play with me; they—­they”—­here a subtle touch of truth struck through Patricia’s ironic tones—­“they teach me to play.  Haven’t I a right to snatch—­what was snatched from me?”

Sylvia cried out:  “Rot!” But Joan made no reply.

Often would Sylvia, deeply serious, urge Patricia to turn her talents to designing.

“Verses only take you near danger, Pat, dear,” she would say; “and look at the things you can make for people!  Why, dear, you bring out all their good points.”

“You would have me stick my precious little soul full of needles and pins?  Oh! you black-hearted creature.  Not on your life, Syl!  Designing is my job—­it gets enough for me to fly on—­but I mean to fly!  And as I fly, I pause to sip and feed, but fly I must.”

For Joan, Patricia felt a strange attraction.  The child that was so persistent in Joan appealed to Patricia while it irritated her.

“She’ll get hurt if she doesn’t grow up!” the girl thought, and began at once rather crude forcing measures.

“A professional woman,” she imparted to Joan, “is a different breed from the household pet—­you must learn to scrimmage for yourself and take what helps your profession.  You cannot stop and nurse the you of you.  One’s Art is the thing.  Now love helps—­love the whole world, Joan, it keeps you young.  Play with it, but don’t make the mistake of letting it take you in.  The thing that threatens Sylvia is her—­Plain John!”

Joan and Patricia laughed now.  Sylvia’s love affair was tenderly old-fashioned.  Her man was on the Pacific Coast, making ready for her; she was going to keep right on with her work—­her John had planned her studio before he had the house!

“‘Love and fly!’ is my motto,” Patricia rambled on; “fly while the flying is good.  Get your wings clipped, and where are you?  Sylvia will have children and they will mess up her studio and her career—­and look at her promise!” It was Patricia that had forced Sylvia’s engagement into the open.