Then a wailing minor melody grew beneath them--unsatisfied, asking, with now and then an ecstasy of joyous chords that only died again into the querying despair of the original theme.

She broke off abruptly, humming the words beneath her breath.
Penelope crossed the room and, laying her hands on the girl's shoulders, twisted her round so that she faced her.
"Nan, it's sheer madness! You've got this wonderful talent--a real gift of the gods--and you do nothing with it!" Nan laughed uncertainly and bent her bead so that all Penelope could see was a cloud of dusky hair.
"I can't," she said.
"Why not ?" Penelope's voice was urgent.

"Why don't you work up that last composition, for instance, and get it published?
Surely"-- giving her a little wrathful shake--"surely you've some ambition ?" "Do you remember what that funny old Scotch clairvoyant said to me?
.

.

.
'You have ambition--great ambition--but not the stability or perseverance to achieve.'" Penelope's level brows contracted into a frown and she shook her head dissentingly.
"It's true--every word of it," asserted Nan.
The other dropped her hands from Nan's shoulders and turned away.
"You'll break everyone's heart before you've finished," she said.