uaranteed to supply them
with any materials that the world could offer, and left them to work
out some ideas of their own. But one by one they had shown their
uselessness. The decadent poet had at once begun bewailing his
separation, from the boulevards in spring--he made some vague remarks
about spices, apes, and ivories, but said nothing that was of any
practical value. The stage designer on his part wanted to make the
whole valley a series of tricks and sensational effects--a state of
things that the Washingtons would soon have grown tired of. And as for
the architect and the landscape gardener, they thought only in terms
of convention. They must make this like this and that like that.

But they had, at least, solved the problem of what was to be done with
them--they all went mad early one morning after spending the night in
a single room trying to agree upon the location of a fountain, and
were now confined comfortably in an insane asylum at Westport,
Connecticut.

"But," inquired John curiously, "who did plan all your wonderful
reception rooms and halls, and approaches and bathrooms--?"

"Well," answered Percy, "I blush to tell you, but it was a
moving-picture fella. He was the only man we found who was used to
playing with an unlimited amount of money, though he did tuck his
napkin in his collar and couldn't read or write."

As August drew to a close John began to regret that he must soon go
back to school. He and Kismine had decided to elope the following
June.

"It would be nicer to be married here," Kismine confessed, "but of
course I could never get father's permission to marry you at all. Next
to that I'd rather elope. It's terrible for wealthy people to be
married in America at present--they always have to send out bulletins
to the press saying that they're going to be married in remnants, when
what they mean is just a peck of old second-hand pearls and some used
lace worn once by the Empress Eugenie."

"I know," agreed John fervently. "When I was visiting the
Schnlitzer-Murphys, the eldest daughter, Gwendolyn, married a man
whose father owns half of West Virginia. She wrote home saying what a
tough struggle she was carrying on on his salary as a bank clerk--and
then she ended up by saying that 'Thank God, I have four good maids
anyhow, and that helps a little.'"

"It's absurd," commented Kismine--"Think of the millions and millions
of people in the world, labourers and all, who get along with only