“Oh, no, Polly,” Thurley interposed. Thurley did not comprehend what Ernestine had tried to impress so carefully upon her—that Polly was not yet defeated, that she must be careful lest she hint of the opinions of the family which were that defeat for Polly was inevitable. Polly pursed up her mouth crossly. “Do, Thurley, this is my party,” she insisted, after which Thurley gave way and let Polly spend two precious dimes in lordly fashion. As they proceeded down the Avenue, seated on the top of a Washington Square ’bus and quite as happy as when Ernestine had taken them out in her motor, Polly said, “I haven’t had the chance of really doing anything for you, Thurley—” “You have, too; there was Sam Sparling—” “Yes, but no one is like Collin.” Her face was illumined from within. Thurley’s dramatic sense caught the wonderful hopelessness of the expression, cold-bloodedly resolving to copy it in any rôle which should demand a similar emotion. “Collin is the most wonderful person in the world, besides being the most wonderful painter. I’m so glad he asked us out for Sunday. He’d have done so before but he’s terrifically busy. All the world crowds his doorstep to be painted. Fancy, Collin has no New York studio—if people wish his work they must come to him and come they do. When you see Parva Sed Apta, you’ll understand why it is the only place in the world of its kind and how beautiful and good is Collin’s own self.” Polly was unconscious of her betrayal. “Is he as wonderful as Bliss Hobart? Ernestine says Collin painted Mr. Hobart’s portrait and it made him.” Polly was loath to give up her argument. “Well, Bliss is wonderful—no one denies that—but in a different way. There are so many sides to Bliss; one day he is a hermit, the next a schoolboy, then a stern master, a diplomat, a sarcastic critic, a taskmaster—sometimes, very rarely of late, he is a dreamer, as idealistic as the tints of the skies in Collin’s pictures. But Collin is always Collin, a child with a talent so huge he does not comprehend it himself and, therefore, he can never be spoiled.” “Has he never married?” Thurley asked innocently. “Oh, no,” Polly’s answer was made in breathless haste, “he never thinks of such a thing—he is absorbed in work ... why, if one is his friend, it is all one should expect ... it is enough,” she added bravely. “Do you think Caleb Patmore will marry?” Thurley braced her little boots against the front board of the ’bus as they rounded a bump in the pavement. “Not unless some one makes Ernestine realize she has a heart tucked away in that austere bosom of hers.... I could beat Ernestine for not loving that boy,” and the thought of Polly, so tiny and gentle in her brown garb, and of Ernestine, stately and unapproachable, in some smoky drapery, made Thurley give way to a chuckle. “Don’t try it unless you take a course of jiu-jitsu,” she advised.