ed to rise early, with a
rushed and remorseful feeling. A situation familiar to many artists.

She succeeded in concentrating herself upon the work with the greatest
difficulty. For, after breakfast, there began a great bustling with
brooms and carpet-sweepers and dusters; and, no sooner was the house
swept than appeared a gay and chattering swarm to garnish it: "Marble
Hearts" with collected "potted palms" and "cut flowers" and cheesecloth
draperies of blue and gold--the "club colours" which, upon the sudden
need for club colours, had been suddenly adopted.

Missy betook herself to her room, but it was filled up with two of the
girls and a bolt of cheesecloth; to the dining room, but there was no
inspiration in the sight of Marguerite polishing the spare silver; to
the side porch, but one cannot work where giggling girls sway and shriek
on tall ladders, hanging paper-lanterns; to the summerhouse, but even
to this refuge the Baby followed her, finally upsetting the water-colour
box.

The day went rushing past. Enticing odours arose from the kitchen. The
grocery wagon came, and came again. The girls went home. A sketchy lunch
was eaten off the kitchen table, and father stayed down town. The girls
reappeared. They overran the kitchen, peeling oranges and pineapples and
bananas for "heavenly hash." Marguerite grew cross. The Baby, who missed
his nap, grew cross. And Missy, for some reason, grew sort of cross,
too; she resented the other girls' unrestrainable hilarity. They
wouldn't be so hilarious if it were their own households they were
setting topsy-turvy; if they had sixteen "place-cards" yet to finish.
In England, the hostess's entertainments went more smoothly. Things were
better arranged there.

Gradually the girls drifted home to dress; the house grew quiet.
Missy's head was aching. Flushed and paint-daubed, she bent over the
"place-cards."

Mother came to the door.

"Hadn't you better be getting dressed, dear?--it's half-past five."

Half-past five! Heavens! Missy bent more feverishly over the
"place-cards"; there were still two left to colour.

"I'll lay out your dotted Swiss for you," offered mother kindly.

At this mention of her "best dress," Missy found time for a pang of vain
desire. She wished she had a more befitting dinner gown. A black velvet,
perhaps; a "picture dress" with rare old lace, and no other adornment
save diamonds in her hair and ears and round her throat and wrists.

But, then, v