It was astonishing how intimate he felt with the
Bartletts since he had put two of them to bed.
"Ah, my friend," said Mr. Martel, shaking his head and smiling, "what can
be avoided whose end is purposed by the mighty gods? Eleanor will follow
her destiny. She has the temperament, the voice, the figure--a trifle
small, I grant you, but lithe, graceful, pliant as a reed."
"Yes, I know what you mean," Quin agreed ardently; "you can tell that in
her dancing."
"But more than all, she has the great ambition, the consuming desire for
self-expression, for----"
Quin's face clouded slightly and he again lost the thread of the
discourse.
"Lots of girls are stage-struck," he said presently, breaking in on Mr.
Martel's rhapsody. "Miss Eleanor's young yet. Don't you believe she will
get over it?"
"Young! Why, Mary Anderson was playing _Meg Merrilies_ when she was two
years younger than Eleanor. I tell you, Quinby--you'll forgive my
addressing you thus--I tell you, the girl will never get over it. She has
inherited the histrionic gift from her mother--from me. The Bartletts
have given her money, education, social position; but it remained for
me--the despised Claude Martel--to give her the soul of an artist.
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