rth what you pay for him.'
The health of the family is so largely dependent on the food. With a
French cook, a butler, a laundress and three maids, a simple
establishment for two people can be kept up decently and in order; a
retinue of servants is not necessary when you do not entertain. Of
course, with less than three maids it is impossible to be clean."

"No, indeed," said Kitty.

"I should think not," assented Mr. Fosdyke, with unnecessary ardor.

"It is pleasant to have you agree with me," said Mrs. Devereaux,
politely. "But, speaking of Paris, oddly enough, since we've been
sitting here I have been reminded forcibly, though I can't imagine why,
of a young man whom I met there a couple of times over a year ago--a
tall, blond young artist who won a prize at the Salon. I haven't heard
of him since, though he seemed to have rather unusual talent. I believe
he left for New York. I can't recall his name, but perhaps you can help
me to it. He painted children very fetchingly."

"Was it Kersley Battersby?" asked Marcia, with a swift frown at the
owner of the name, who had doubled over suddenly.

"Kersley Battersby. The very man!" exclaimed Mrs. Devereaux, with
animation. "How clever you are, my dear, to guess it! My sister, the
Countess of Crayford, who has just come over this autumn, wants some one
to paint her twin girls. It strikes me that he would be the very person
to do it, if possibly you have his address. There was a sentiment, a
bloom, one might call it, that seemed to characterize his children's
heads particularly. They made a real impression on me."

"Yes, Battersby has a great deal of bloom," said Mr. Fosdyke, solemnly.
"Bloom is what he excels in. Alphonse, fill Mrs. Devereaux's glass. I
will look up his address in my notebook, Mrs. Devereaux. I have an
impression that he is within reach."

He turned to Marcia provocatively, but she did not respond. Her brain
was suddenly in a whirl that carried her past the wild incongruities of
the situation. If Kersley had "prospects" like that--She did not dare to
meet his eyes.

The dinner was excellent, the waiting perfect. Marcia was in a glow of
happiness. She felt repaid for her work, her struggles, and the
expenditure which would make a new gown this winter impossible. This was
as she had wanted it to be--a little Thanksgiving feast for this woman
who was her friend. Through all Mrs. Devereaux's interest in the others,
the little inner bond was between her