"I am an artist," he announced, "and a rattling good artist. I haven't yet achieved my ultimate recognition, but it will come,--it must come. I, therefore, I will undertake the task,--the ineffably joyous task of designing,--of inventing a dance for Miss Fairfield." "Do, Grantham," cried Blaney. "No one could do it better. Dream out a scheme, a picture plan that will be worthy of our little Terpsichore. A dance that shall be a whirlwind of violets,--a tornado of lilting veils." "Veils!" cried Grantham, "that's the keynote! A Dance of the Year,--a mad gyration of Time,--of Time, himself, translated into thistledown,--into scented thistledown." "Bravo!" "Glorious!" Other praises were shouted, and the place was like a pandemonium. Patty began to realise the Bohemians were a boisterous lot. She clapped her hands over her ears in smiling dismay. "Quiet!" said Blaney, in his low, exquisite tones, and in an instant the room was almost silent. Committees were appointed to take charge of the Christmas celebration, and then the program began. It was long, and, to Patty, a bit uninteresting. She tried hard to understand the queer things they read or recited, but it seemed to her a continuous repetition of sound without sense. She was willing to admit her own stupidity, and noting the rapt expressions on the faces round her, she concluded the lack was in herself. The music, too, though strange and eccentric, didn't seem to her as worth while as it had done before, though it was decidedly similar. Blaney read some of his poems, to a zithern accompaniment, but they weren't very impressive, and not nearly so poetic as the lines he had written for her. She wondered if she had really inspired him to greater heights of song than he could attain without her influence. He had assured her of this, and she began to think it might be so. The supper followed the program. This was not enjoyed by Patty. Usually, after a dance or concert, she was hungry for some light refreshment, but in this incense-laden, smoke-heavy atmosphere, she felt no desire to eat, and had she done so, she could not have relished the viands. For they were of highly-spiced and foreign-flavoured sorts, and their principal ingredients were smoked fish, pungent sauces, and strong cheese, all of which Patty detested. Moreover, the service was far from dainty. The heavy china, thick glass, and battered, unreal silver detracted still further from the appetising effects of the feast. But everybody was so genuinely distressed at Patty's lack of appetite and made such to-do about it, that she forced herself to eat, and even essayed a cup of their muddy, syrupy coffee. And she enjoyed herself. She absorbed much of their jargon and stored it up in her brain for future use. She unconsciously adapted herself to their mannerisms and whimsical enthusiasm, and when she went home everybody praised her and declared her one of them and the best of them.