'Oh, no. I must be taught, but do you think I could ever learn?'
'Dear cousin, I've never doubted but you are a...Genius!'
Lanice, her face flushed to a precocious pinkness, her eyes flooded with light, her tight lips trembling, gazed with rapture at this dea ex machina who could, by some alchemy, make her a great artist.
Pauline hastily outlined a plan. Lanice was to live with the Poggys and study with any half-dozen artists of established reputations who conducted informal classes. Little by little she was to realize that in her artistic career she worked, not merely for Art, but for the Freedom of Women. She should serve Minerva, not Apollo. She would, during her training, attend many lectures, conversations, meetings, unions, and institutes with Pauline. Social life, except an occasional soirée at the home of a Harvard professor, was forbidden. For all these good things Lanice was not to pay a cent. The girl demurred. She had a generous monthly allowance. How strange Papa had looked when she had asked if it would be continued, his face white, his eyes like onyx. Not a word suggested pain at his wife's or daughter's desertion, but if you watched him very closely you saw that every so often his head moved slightly up and to the left. His lips were so dry they rustled as he pressed his handkerchief against them.
It was decided that Lanice, in her spare hours, should serve as amanuensis to Captain Poggy. The old merchant, senior member of Poggy, Banks &
