am still keeping up my Lenten penance, for I acquired the taste for
it, and I can't bring myself back to the old extravagant ways. Next
Lent, probably I shall mortify the flesh by taking two lumps."

Bobby handed her the cup.

"The other cheek," he answered. "Which do you mean? He's all cheek, all
over himself, and it offers itself, whichever way he turns. Have you
seen Thayer lately, Arlt?"

"Yesterday afternoon. He came down to my room to rehearse the songs he
is to sing, next Saturday."

"What is Saturday? You fellows are going ahead at such a rate that I
can't keep track of you, unless I have an engagement book for your
especial benefit."

"Bobby!" Sally expostulated. "Mr. Arlt's suite is to be played,
Saturday, and Mr. Thayer is to be the soloist for the concert. You
oughtn't to have forgotten that, especially when you asked me to go with
you."

"Oh, yes; I do remember now," Bobby replied serenely. "I knew I had some
duty on hand for Saturday, just when I wanted to run up to Englewood for
a little golf. What makes you do music in pleasant weather, Arlt? It's
mean to keep a fellow in-doors at this season."

"It is our last appearance," Arlt answered.

Bobby raised his brows in feigned terror.

"Nothing mortal, I hope."

"No. We are going abroad, early in June."

"Just the other fellow's luck! I wish I were a genius, to go frisking
about Europe instead of inking my fingers at home."

Arlt shook his head.

"No frisking for us. We are going to study."

With characteristic promptitude, Bobby dragged out his hobby, mounted it
and was off at a gallop.

"That's always the way with you musicians! You work till you are tired
of it; then you go off and shirk, and call it studying. I used to think
you were the elect of the earth. Now I doubt it."

"Have some more tea, Bobby," Miss Gannion suggested.

Bobby waved her aside.

"Am I a child, to be diverted with soothing drinks? Never! I must have
my cry out, Miss Gannion. You and Sally can be talking about the last
fashion in peignoirs, if you wish. I don't know what they are; but I did
a scarehead about them for the Sunday fashion page, last week. The woman
who generally sees to it had mumps, and I substituted. I thought I did
it superbly: _Death to Decollete: Peignoirs Popular for Suburban
Suppers_. That was the way I did it, and I was sure she would be
pleased; but she cut me dead on the stairs, the first day she
convalesced enough to be out. Arlt, musi