Her aim was taken.

She would not write novels or compose operas; she would paint.

There was some renunciation in it and some humility.

The day she came home, looking over a dainty sandalwood box full of early verses, twice locked against her mother's eye, "The desire of the moth for the star," she said to herself; but she did not tear them up.

That would have been brutal.
Elfrida wanted to put off opening the case that held her year's work until next day.