“You’re a good child, Phil. I don’t know what I should do without you. Let’s see what you have. Sliced ham, cheese, potato salad, rolls, canned peaches;” she mentioned the articles as she drew them forth from the big bag. “I’ll open a can of soup, and we shall do very well. If we get hungry before bedtime, we can have a cup of chocolate. You and Ellen can set the table, Phil, while I get the soup ready.” Mr. Austin swept the books and papers from the largest table, and laid some queer-looking mats upon it while Ellen went for the dishes. There were no two of these alike, and when it came time to serve the peaches the soup plates had to be washed, as there was nothing else in which to put them. However, they had a jolly meal and Ellen enjoyed the informality. “It does so remind me of the old days,” she sighed. “I thought it might, and that you would like it,” said Mr. Austin. “But we don’t mean that you shall always eat in this higgledy-piggledy way,” declared Mrs. Austin. “It’s fun, and I like it,” Ellen assured her. The dishes were scarcely out of the way before visitors from the neighboring studios dropped in, and the familiar art patter began. One or more brought sketches which were set up and commented upon with much gesture of thumbs and heated discussion. Ellen listened to it all with glowing appreciation, and when the talk became an exchange of witticisms, she withdrew herself farther and farther away from the dull little town she had left. This was the life. Nobody had such good times as these care-free artists. Later Mrs. Austin made chocolate and brought out the cakes and nougat, which were consumed to the uttermost crumb. There were not enough cups for the chocolate, but anything did,—tumblers, mugs, even two small pitchers,—and as for spoons, who wanted them when there were clean sticks of charcoal handy? It was nearly midnight before the company dispersed, and then Ellen was put to bed on the couch, her coverings eked out by a Navajo blanket taken down from the wall, and she went to sleep with the moonlight streaming in through the skylight, picking out the gilt on the hilts of a pair of swords, and causing the glass eyes of a simpering lay figure to stare at her uncannily. Mrs. Austin was in hiding behind the screen most of the next day, but she emerged in time to scramble together some sort of lunch made up of the odds and ends left over from the night before. Mr. Austin was out nearly all day, so Ellen, left to herself, sallied forth to hunt up some of her old friends. She was so late getting back that she found Mr. and Mrs. Austin waiting for her. “We feared you were lost,” said Mrs. Austin. “We thought we’d go somewhere and get a light supper. Mr. Barstow is sure to have a big feast in the course of the evening, so we must save our appetites for that. Are you going to wear that dress, Ellen? If you are not, skurry into another one.” “We should dress up, I suppose.”