nounced at the first mouthful,
"and these assorted vegetables all cut down to the same size are as
pretty as they are good, as one says of virtuous innocence."

"This variety of asparagus is expensive," Caroline said; "she can't do
things like this at seventy-five cents a head. She'll ruin herself."

"I don't see how she can," Dick said thoughtfully, "with the price of
foodstuffs soaring sky-high."

"I never for a moment expected it to pay," Betty said, "but think of
the run she will have for her money, and the experience we'll get out
of it."

"You're in it for the romance there is in it, Betty. I must confess it
isn't altogether my idea of a good time," Caroline said.

"I know, you would go in for military training for women, and that
sort of thing. There's a woman over there asking for more olives, and
she's eaten a plate full of them already."

"They're as big as hen's eggs anyhow," Caroline groaned, "and almost
as extravagant. I don't see how Nancy'll go through the first month at
this rate. There she comes now. Doesn't she look nice in that color of
green?"

"How do you like my party?" Nancy asked, slipping into the empty chair
between Dick and Billy; "isn't the food good and nourishing, and
aren't there a lot of nice-looking people here?"

"Very much, and it is, and there are," Dick answered with affectionate
eyes on her.

"The salad is alligator pear served in half sections, with French
dressing," she said dreamily. "I'm too happy to eat, but I'll have
some with you. Look at them all, don't they look relaxed and soothed
and refreshed? Every individual has a perfectly balanced ration of the
most superlatively good quality, slowly beginning to assimilate within
him."

"I don't see many respectable working girls," Billy said.

"There are though,--from the different shops and offices on the
avenue. There is a contingent from the Columbia summer school coming
to-morrow evening. This group coming in now is newspaper people."

"Who's the fellow sitting over in the corner with that Vie de Boheme
hat? He looks familiar, but I can't seem to place him."

"The man in black with the mustache?" Dick asked. "He's an artist,
pretty well known. That impressionistic chap--I can't think of his
name--that had that exhibition at the Palsifer galleries."

"Does he sell?" Caroline asked.

"No, they say he's awfully poor, refuses to paint down to the public
taste. What the deuce is his name--oh! I know, Collier Pratt