berta later,
pouring cream into her coffee from an adorable little Spanish jug, "as
long as you have it on this lovely old china."

They had their coffee in the studio, sitting around the open fire, and
while they were drinking it people began to drop in--Mr. Blake, who
roomed just across the Square, a pretty, pale girl, who was evidently an
artist because every one congratulated her on having some things "on the
line" somewhere, three newspaper men from the flat above, who being on a
morning daily had just gotten up and stopped in to say "Happy New Year"
on their way down to Park Row, and a jolly little woman whom the others
called Mrs. Bob.

"She's promised to chaperon us," Madeline explained to her guests. "She
lives down-stairs, so we can't go in or out without falling into her
terrible clutches."

Mrs. Bob, who was in a corner playing with the little black kitten that
seemed to belong with the house, like Mrs. McLean, stopped long enough
to ask if they had heard about the theatre party. They had not, so Mr.
Blake explained that by a sudden change of bill at one of the theatres
Mr. Sothern and Miss Marlowe were to give "The Merchant of Venice" that
evening.

"And I understand from Miss Watson that you people are particularly
interested in that play," he added, "so I've corraled some tickets and
Mrs. Bob and a bunch of men."

"And the Carletons will have an early dinner," put in Mrs. Bob. "Oh, I
forgot. You don't know about that either. Mrs. Carleton won't be back
from the country until four o'clock, so she asked me to give you the
invitation to have New Year's dinner with them."

"But did she know there were six of us?" asked Betty anxiously,
whereupon everybody laughed and Mrs. Bob assured her that Mrs. Carleton
had mentioned seven to her, and hadn't seemed in the least worried.

That was the way things went all through their visit. Mrs. Bob took
them shopping, with frequent intermissions for cakes and tea at queer
little tea-rooms, with alluring names like "The London Muffin Room," or
the "Yellow Tea-Pot." Her husband escorted them to the east-side
brass-shops, assuring them solemnly that it wasn't everybody he showed
his best finds to, and mourning when their rapturous enthusiasm
prevented his getting them a real bargain. The newspaper men gave a
"breakfast-luncheon" for them--breakfast for themselves, and luncheon
for their guests--which was so successful that it was continued that
same evening by a vis