in strips were tacked over the walls there, and two small
figures, desperate, smudged, wearing the blue overalls Skeet Thornhill
had waved at us, toiled manfully smearing the blossom festival colors on
in lettering and ornamental designs.

"Ina!" Skeet yawped at her sister, "Another dirty, low Irish trick! Get
yourself all dressed up like a sore thumb, and then show us off in this
fix!"

Mutely Barbara revolved on the box she occupied. There was fire in her
soft eyes; her color was high as her glance came to rest on Worth.

"Fong Ling's nearly ready to serve dinner," said Ina calmly. "Stop
fussing, and go wash up."

"Hello, Mr. Boyne." As Skeet passed me, she wiped a paw on a paint rag
and offered it to me without another word. I got a grip and a look that
told me there was no hang-over with her from that scene yesterday in her
mother's sick-room. Vandeman was commenting on his depleted bamboo
clumps.

"Mine suffered worse than yours, Worth. Fong Ling kicked like a bay
steer about our taking so much. He's nursed the stuff for years like a
fond mother. But we had to have it for that effect up around the
orchestra stand."

"Then he's been with you a long time?" I caught at the chance for
information on this chink--information that I'd found it impossible to
get from the chink himself.

"Ever since I came in here. Chinamen, you know--not like Japs. Some
loyalty. You can keep a good one for half a lifetime."

We strolled back to the living room; the girls were there before us,
Skeet picking out bits of plum-blossoms and bunches of cherry bloom from
a great bowl on the mantel, and sticking them in Barbara's dark hair,
wreath fashion.

"Best we could do at a splurge," she greeted us, "was to turn in our
blouses at the neck."

"And what in the world are you doing to Barbara?" Mrs. Vandeman said
sharply. "Let her alone, Skeet. You'll make her look ridiculous."

Skeet stuck out her tongue at her sister, and went calmly on, mumbling
as she worked,

"Hold 'till 'ittle Barbie child. Yook up at pretty mans and hold 'till."

Over the mantel, in front of Barbara as she stood, her back to us all,
hung an oil painting--one of those family groups--same old popper; same
old mommer, and a fat baby in a white dress and blue sash. At that, it
was good enough to show that the man had some resemblance to Vandeman as
he leaned there on the mantel below it, rather encouraging Skeet's
enterprise. From the other side, I could see