n our select artistic circle; again it was the
possible--dare I say probable?--sale of a picture at a quite
inconceivable price. There were always occasions enough. Would it had
been the case with the dinners!

The studio was the thing,--the studio, decked with Indian trophies and
the bleached bones of sea birds and land beasts, and lined with studies
in all colors under heaven. Here was the oft-lighted peace-pipe; and
Orient rugs and wolf-skins for a _siesta_ when the beach yonder was a
blaze of white and blinding light, that made it blessed to close one's
eyes and shut out the glare--and to keep one's ears open to the lulling
song of the sea.

Here we concocted a plan. It was to be kept a profound mystery; even the
butcher was unaware, and the baker in total darkness; as for the
wine-merchant, he was as blind as a bat. We were to give the banquet and
ball of the season. We went to the hall of our sisters,--scarcely kin
were they, but kinder never lived, and their house was at our disposal.
We threw out the furniture; we made a green bower of the adobe chamber.
One window, that bore upon the forlorn vacuum of the main street, was
speedily stained the deepest and most splendid dyes; from without, it
had a pleasing, not to say refining, medieval effect; from within, it
was likened unto the illuminated page of an antique antiphonary--in
flames; yes, positively in flames!

A great board was laid the length of the room, a kind of Round
Table--with some few unavoidable innovations, such as a weak leg or two,
square corners, and an unexpected depression in the centre of it, where
the folding leaves sought in vain to join. From the wall depended the
elaborate _menu_, life-size and larger; and at every course a cartoon in
color more appetizing than the town market. The emblematic owl blinked
upon us from above the door. Invitations were hastily penned and sent
forth to a select few. Forgive us, Dona Jovita, if thy guest card was
redolent of tea or of brown soap; for it was penned in the privacy of
the pantry, and either upon the Scylla of the tea-caddy or the soapy
Charybdis it was sure to be dashed at last.

It was rare fun, if I did say it from the foot of the flower-strewn
table, clad in an improvised toga, while a gentleman in Joss-like
vestments carved and complimented in a single breath at the top of the
Bohemian board. From the adjoining room came the music of hired
minstrels: the guitar, the violin, and blending voi