"So I did, my poor child. It was only to encourage myself."
"With your own work—your painting?"
"With my futile, my ill-starred endeavours. Union is strength; so that we might present a wider front, a larger surface of resistance."
Biddy was silent a moment, while they continued their tour of observation. She noticed how her brother passed over some things quickly, his first glance sufficing to show him whether they were worth another, and recognized in a moment the figures that had something in them. His tone puzzled her, but his certainty of eye impressed her, and she felt what a difference there was yet between them—how much longer, in every case, she would have taken to discriminate. She was aware that she could rarely tell whether a picture was good or bad until she had looked at it for ten minutes; and modest little Biddy was compelled privately to add, "And often not even then." She was mystified, as I say (Nick was often mystifying—it was his only fault), but one thing was definite: her brother was exceedingly clever. It was the consciousness of this that made her remark at last: "I don't so much care whether or no I please mamma, if I please you."
"Oh, don't lean on me. I'm a wretched broken reed. I'm no use really!" Nick Dormer exclaimed.
"Do you mean you're a duffer?" Biddy asked, alarmed.
"Frightful, frightful!"
"So that you mean to give up your work—to let it alone, as you advise me?"
"It has never been my work, Biddy. If it had, it would be different. I should stick to it."
