“I look back fourteen years and see myself as I look at you. I was droll for a year or so. But Bliss claims you have a sense of humor, so everything else will follow like sheep. You don’t understand, do you?” she said kindly. “Let’s see what the ‘family’ can do for you. Bliss is such a bear at explaining that he has really turned you over to me. You see, Thurley, there are so many hundreds of the near-famous and so many truly-great persons who abuse the name that a select little coterie of us—myself and five others—after rather depressing and humorous experiences have formed what we call the family, and we are going to adopt you. It’s quite a recommendation, but you’ll realize it more five years from now. By the way, I shall not ask you to smoke—bad for tender throats.” “How beautiful,” Thurley said softly, “a family!” “Just a title, of course, but we have our parties and our times together and we talk of what we like in the manner we like—rather hard to plunge headlong into the real meaning of things. I think Bliss was precipitate in asking you to the Thursday dinner party.” “He hasn’t.” “But he will—that’s his way. He’s such a busy dear that he never does things properly. Now in the family are myself and Polly Harris, whom you’ll know better after seeing than I can tell you. Remember she has a Packard personality in that Lizzie Ford body of hers. Then Collin Hedley—” “The artist who did your picture?” “The same. And Mark Wirth, as great a dancer as you will ever see,” her lips folded into a displeased expression but she did not explain the reason, “and Bliss and there will be yourself. Then there are Sam Sparling, the English actor, and the original of that portrait,” she pointed to the man who had interested Thurley. “His name is Caleb Patmore.” “Why, he writes stories,” Thurley said. “Even Birge’s Corners has become aware of him.” “Bless his wicked heart!” Ernestine said swiftly. Thurley began to wonder why Caleb Patmore ever used any other woman as a model for heroines or Collin Hedley for his paintings. Perhaps it was Ernestine’s unusual fashion of dress which made every one feel that she had worn only the least beautiful of her gowns or the careless, homely way she dressed her hair or her unjewelled, ugly hands which could coax from the pianoforte such music as Thurley had never dreamed could exist—or her sarcastic worldliness tempered with a girlish idealism which made her face bright with smiles. Then there was the strange, restless sadness in her eyes and the way the scarlet mouth had of dropping into hurt little curves, symbolic of many things of which Thurley was still ignorant. Ernestine Christian was indifferent, even insolent, regarding her fame, but jealously proud of her theories about it. And when she mentioned Bliss Hobart a few moments later, she said enthusiastically,