plain cat with a tame disposition.
A hammock.
A sun-dial. (But that might be thrown in with the garden.)
A gold watch-bracelet.
All the colored satin slippers I want.
A room big enough to put all father's books up.

It looked shamelessly long, but Phyllis's "discretionary powers" would
cover it, she knew. Mrs. Harrington's final will, while full of advice,
had been recklessly trusting.

She could order everything in one afternoon, she was sure, all but the
house, the garden, the motor, which she put checks against, and the
plain cat, which she thought she could pick up in the village where her
house would be.

Next she went to see Allan. She didn't want to bother him, but she did
feel that she ought to share her plans with him as far as possible.
Besides, it occurred to her that she could scarcely remember what he was
like to speak to, and really owed it to herself to go. She fluffed out
her hair loosely, put on her pale-green gown that had clinging lines,
and pulled some daffodils through her sash. She had resolved to avoid
anything sombre where Allan was concerned--and the green gown was very
becoming. Then, armed with her list and a pencil, she crossed boldly to
the couch where her Crusader lay in the old attitude, moveless and with
half-closed eyes.

"Allan," she asked, standing above him, "do you think you could stand
being talked to for a little while?"

"Why--yes," said Allan, opening his eyes a little more. "Wallis,
get--Mrs. Harrington--a chair."

He said the name haltingly, and Phyllis wondered if he disliked her
having it. She dropped down beside him, like a smiling touch of spring
in the dark room.

"Do you mind their calling me that?" she asked. "If there's anything
else they could use----"

"Mother made you a present of the name," he said, smiling faintly. "No
reason why I should mind."

"All right," said Phyllis cheerfully. After all, there was nothing else
to call her, speaking of her. The servants, she knew, generally said
"the young madam," as if her mother-in-law were still alive.

"I want to talk to you about things," she began; and had to stop to deal
with the wolfhound, who was trying to put both paws on her shoulders.
"Oh, Ivan, _get_ down, honey! I _wish_ somebody would take a day off
some time to explain to you that you're not a lap-dog! Do you like
wolfhounds specially better than any other kind of dog, Allan?"

"Not particularly," said Allan, patting the dog l