"I don't lace at all," said Ellen. "I can't play if I'm all boxed in."
Mrs. Callendar threw back her stole and nodded her head sagely. "You're much wiser, my dear. Much wiser. When I was a girl I was famous for my waist. Sixteen inches it was . . . only sixteen inches." And she brought together her plump fingers in a gesture which implied that once she might have encircled her waist with her two hands. "But I fainted. . . . I used to faint daily. I don't lace tightly any more, but it makes no difference. It's just stayed that way. You see, my corsets are quite loose." And she thrust a finger into the space between her ample bosom and her corset to prove her statement. "I know my figure is bad in these days. Too many curves and too little height. But I'm past forty and it doesn't matter so much."
Secretly Ellen must have compared the figure of her guest with that of her own vigorous mother. Mrs. Tolliver was ten years the older, yet her appearance was that of a woman much younger than Mrs. Callendar. It was in this difference that the Levantine blood of the latter betrayed her. She was a friendly woman, certainly, and one who was quite sure of herself, fortified clearly by the conviction that the king can do no wrong.
"You shouldn't have climbed the stairs just to see if I was all right."
"But you see," said Mrs. Callendar, "I'm interested in you. Sanson tells me you have a great future. He doesn't tell me such things if he doesn't believe them. . . . But don't let that turn your head. Nothing comes without work . . . least of all, anything to do with the arts."
For a moment Ellen did not reply. At last she said, thoughtfully, "I know that."
"You are bitter," observed Mrs. Callendar, "and perhaps unhappy," she added with a shrewd glance of her near sighted eyes. "Well, that's a good thing. It shows character, and no artist ever existed without character. Character is the thing that counts." Here, having regained her breath, she rose and placing
