“No, dear! No!” Lizzie lifted the Chelsea figure higher. “Can’t you find something for him, Andora, among that rubbish over there? Where’s the beaded bag you had in your hand just now? I don’t think it could hurt him to lick that.” Miss Macy, bag in hand, rose from her knees, and stumbled through the slough of frayed garments and old studio properties. Before the group of mother and son she fell into a raptured attitude. “Do look at him reach for it, the tyrant! Isn’t he just like the young Napoleon?” Lizzie laughed and swung her son in air. “Dangle it before him, Andora. If you let him have it too quickly, he won’t care for it. He’s just like any man, I think.” Andora slowly lowered the shining bag till the heir of the Deerings closed his masterful fist upon it. “There--my Chelsea’s safe!” Lizzie smiled, setting her boy on the floor, and watching him stagger away with his booty. Andora stood beside her, watching too. “Have you any idea where that bag came from, Lizzie?” Mrs. Deering, bent above a pile of dis-collared shirts, shook an inattentive head. “I never saw such wicked washing! There isn’t one that’s fit to mend. The bag? No; I’ve not the least idea.” Andora surveyed her dramatically. “Doesn’t it make you utterly miserable to think that some woman may have made it for him?” Lizzie, bowed in anxious scrutiny above the shirts, broke into an unruffled laugh. “Really, Andora, really--six, seven, nine; no, there isn’t even a dozen. There isn’t a whole dozen of _anything_. I don’t see how men live alone!” Andora broodingly pursued her theme. “Do you mean to tell me it doesn’t make you jealous to handle these things of his that other women may have given him?” Lizzie shook her head again, and, straightening herself with a smile, tossed a bundle in her friend’s direction. “No, it doesn’t make me the least bit jealous. Here, count these socks for me, like a darling.”