Yes, the Master was up; he could be seen.

The heavy boots were being rubbed against the birch broom that, rooted
at Kentish back doors, stands to receive on its purple twigs the
scrapings of Kentish clay from rustic feet.

"You have the artistic lines very strongly marked," Vernon was saying.
"One, two, three--yes, painting--music perhaps?"

"I am very fond of music," said Betty, thinking of the hour's daily
struggle with the Mikado and the Moonlight Sonata. "But three arts.
What could the third one be?" Her thoughts played for an instant with
unheard-of triumphs achieved behind footlights--rapturous applause,
showers of bouquets.

"Whatever it is, you've enormous talent for it," he said; "you'll find
out what it is in good time. Perhaps it'll be something much more
important than the other two put together, and perhaps you've got even
more talent for it than you have for others."

"But there isn't any other talent that I can think of."

"I can think of a few. There's the stage,--but it's not that, I fancy,
or not exactly that. There's literature--confess now, don't you write
poetry sometimes when you're all alone at night? Then there's the art
of being amusing, and the art of being--of being liked."

"Shall I be successful in any of the arts?"

"In one, certainly."