hem Stanwood invited nearly every one who might be
expected to come.

Fortunately not a large proportion of these actually turned up. Some
came because they were under obligations to the artist, and some because
he was under obligations to them; some from vague curiosity, and others
from sheer ignorance. Those who appeared at such a one as this, where
the portrait of a young girl was displayed, were roughly limited to a few
easily identified classes. There was centrally the young girl herself,
and then there were the members of her family, all radiant except the
purchaser of the picture, who customarily showed traces of sobriety and
skepticism. There were one or two prospective patrons lured to the trap;
some ephemeral sycophants, volunteer or mercenary; a few idle fellow
artists who enjoyed seeing a colleague make what they considered to be an
exhibition of himself; some inevitable people who went everywhere they
were asked, especially when there was a prospect of something to eat; and
a few puzzled and lonely-looking souls who could furnish no explanation
of their attendance, did not stay very long, and never came a second time.

At this view the role of sycophants was to be played by two young girls
who had taken up self-cultivation as a sort of fad, and had somehow
become obsessed with the curious idea that art such as was found in
Pelgram's studio could assist them in their commendable pursuit of
culture. Their host was consequently delighted when, at an early hour,
Miss Heatherton and Miss Long arrived, as they had promised to do. Their
manifest adoration would produce an admirable spot light in which he
might stand during the function, but more than that, he hoped that Helen
herself would be impressed by the deep regard in which these fair
disciples evidently held him and his work. Miss Heatherton was to pour
the tea, and Miss Long was to distribute the thin lettuce sandwiches
which formed its somewhat unsubstantial accompaniment.

Miss Heatherton's initial remark demonstrated the fact that, despite her
plunge into what her family considered a dangerous part of Bohemia, she
had managed to preserve intact her adherence to the traditional in
conversational matters. When Pelgram escorted her to the tea table, she
bleated a pathetic protest against his positive inhumanity in placing her
where the great work was invisible.

"Oh, Mr. Pelgram, you are really cruel! Eleanor, don't you think he
might have put