On receipt of this request delivered through the medium of the ticket- seller, Amarilly promptly appeared at the studio. She was gravely and courteously received by the artist, Derry Phillips, an easy-mannered youth, slim and supple, with dark, laughing eyes. When they had transacted the business pertaining to the rental of the surplice, Amarilly arose from her chair with apparent reluctance. This was a new atmosphere, and she was fascinated by the pictures and the general air of artistic disarrangement which she felt but could not account for. "'Tain't exactly the kind of place to tidy," she reflected, "but it needs cleaning turrible." "Do you like pictures?" asked the young artist, following her gaze. "Stay a while and look at them, if you wish." Amarilly readily availed herself of this permission, and rummaged about the rooms while Derry pursued his work. Upon the completion of her tour of inspection, he noticed a decided look of disapproval upon her face. "What is the matter, Miss Jenkins? Aren't the pictures true to life?" he inquired with feigned anxiety. "The picters is all right," replied Amarilly, "but--" "But what?" he urged expectantly. "Your rooms need reddin' up. Thar's an orful lot of dust. Yer things will spile." "Oh, dust, you know, to the artistic temperament, is merely a little misplaced matter." "'Tain't only misplaced. It's stuck tight," contended Amarilly. "Dear me! And to think that I was contemplating a studio tea to some people day after to-morrow, I suppose it really should be 'red up' again. Honestly though, I engage a woman who come every week and clean the rooms." "She's imposed on you," said Amarilly indignantly. "She's swept the dirt up agin the mopboards and left it thar, and she hez only jest skimmed over things with a dust-cloth. It ain't done thorough." "And are you quite proficient as a _blanchisseuse?"_ Amarilly looked at him unperturbed. "I kin scrub," she remarked calmly. "I stand rebuked. Scrubbing is what they need. If you will come to-morrow morning and put these rooms in order, I will give you a dollar and your midday meal." Amarilly, well satisfied with her new opening, closed the bargain instantly. The next morning at seven o'clock she rang the studio bell. The artist, attired in a bathrobe and rubbing his eyes sleepily, opened the door. "This was the day I was to clean," reminded Amarilly reprovingly. "To be sure. But why so early? I thought you were a telegram." "Early! It's seven o'clock." "I still claim it's early. I have only been in bed four hours." "Well, you kin go back to bed. I'll work orful quiet." "And I can trust you not to touch any of the pictures or move anything?" "I'll be keerful," Amarilly assured him. "Jest show me whar to het up the water. I brung the soap and a brush."