Daphne was not a dilettante.
She refused the monikor when applied to her 'dabbling' at the arts.
"Why," she began, adjusting her spectacles (despite their having no magnifiying powers) "It might interest you to know that Dilettante was derived of the Italian present participle dilettare which means, "one who delights"
Her confidence lagged a bit, what that correct? She'd left her Italian dictionary somewhere but lost track of it when her gardening books lured her away from the subject. She shuffled through the stack of language books, gardening periodicals, art books and unfinished articles.
"I mean to say, if insult is meant by that term towards me, then, please, where is the proof?" She rummaged through her stacks of half read books, dog eared and writ upon, and knocked over a stack of unfinished watercolours and half finished drawings.
"I may not be a professional, in certain realms, but does that stop me from preaching...er I mean, discussing my views and opinons in print of art, artist, authors and all their work?"
Her maid came in at that moment with silver tray bearing a caller's card, behind her rushed a rather disgruntled looking man wearing an artist's smock, angry scowl, holding a paper aloft, shouting : "Dilettante!"
Daphne was not a dilettante.
Daphne the definitely not Dilettante! A serial Fiction after the fashion of 
that follows these rules:
211 words - First and last sentence are identical.
Illustrations are also done by myself.