all so sharply, to have nothing of one's own.
Here, too, was the divine satisfaction of the artist,—to lose the consciousness of self, to be only a mirror, reflecting the faces of others. Not self-expression, but accurate report, was what one should strive for. From that criticism of her too egoistic work she would start out with a prayer for clearer vision.
Yes, this was her home. She looked out with quiet exultation at the Square. Angle and corner, clinging wisteria and quaint window were hers in peculiar possession. For her remained strenuous endeavour, stern discipline; for her, too, the moments when the shaping idea took possession, walked with her down the enchanted street.
Then, there was Mrs. Kent.
Anne thought of Howard with a remote sadness.
"If it had not been for Mrs. Kent, I might have given up. The real thing is too beautiful to be imitated in any kind of sham."
