“Don’t try to visit until I’ve finished my anvil chorus. On Caleb’s recommendation I had a firm do things for me—gaze at the fiasco. It is terribly disquieting to leave one’s place as one likes it and return to find it the back parlor of a flourishing merchant!” “Oh, but it doesn’t look so!” Thurley defended. “That fire screen is a joy.” “It may as well be put away,” Ernestine told the maid. “There’ll be a charity kettle-drum soon enough and I’ll have to donate something for the raffle. That will do nicely. Every one wants things one has worn or used—I’ve a notion the next time to send my last quarter’s telephone directory—I don’t doubt but what it would actually be bid for ... there, Agnes, get hold of the firm early in the morning and don’t call me. You know what is wrong and I cannot personally stand a battle with interior decorators. Come inside, Thurley; take off your green riding-hood cloak and let me see you. Ah, lovely, lovely!” she caressed the gown as Thurley would have wished to be caressed herself. “Why, you have promoted yourself famously—the hair is charming, not a hint of Birge’s Corners left! Nice child, how proud we shall all be—go ’way, Silver Heels, I’ve a new playmate—shall we stay in my room and pray heaven no one interrupts us? I ordered black coffee and crullers so we can be extra wild. Tell me all you have seen and done.” Ernestine threw herself on a chaise longue gracefully—she had a perfect way of doing everything. Caleb had declared her to be the only woman who could really look fetching while done up in curl papers! As she lay there in her negligee of skillfully blended blue and gray chiffon without a hint of lace to relieve the sulky loveliness of the colors, Thurley experienced the same shyness she had that first day in Bliss Hobart’s studio. “Did your concerts go well?” she asked. “Do you want these cushions piled on top of you and myself acting as paperweight on top of them?” Ernestine raised herself on one thin arm. “_Continuez!_ Why not ask if unknown admirers sent me red, red roses or if I played Chaminade for the Benevolent Newsboys’ Association when I was their honor guest—ask if I climbed Mt. McKinley or was lost in Death Valley—you disappointing _midge_, your looks belie you utterly.” “What is the popular topic?” Thurley was capable of teasing, too. “Caleb Patmore?” Ernestine’s sallow cheeks flushed. She made a clucking noise which brought Silver Heels from under the lounge. “I hope you eat so many frosted crullers you’ll take on weight, bringing Bliss’s wrath on your impudent shoulders. I want to know about you—whom have you met?—how is the ghost-lady?—the voice of gold—what do you think of us now? Sorry you came?” She laughed over at Thurley in friendly fashion and the fagged artist vanished. So Thurley, while February slush-rain beat in vain at windows and raw winds mercilessly blew, told Ernestine all that had happened from the time they said good-by in December.