"Why?" she demanded, with a disapproving shake of head, while he delighted in the girlish color in her cheeks that gave the lie to her thirty-eight years. "Because, then," he answered, "you should have had to walk twice as far this morning and my pleasure of watching you would have been correspondingly increased. I've always insisted that the _holoku_ is the most charming garment ever invented for women." "Then it was my _holoku_ and not I," she retorted. "I see you are like Dick--always with a string on your compliments, and lo, when we poor sillies start to nibble, back goes the compliment dragging at the end of the string. "Now I want to show you the room," she hurried on, closing his disclaimer. "Dick gave me a free hand with it. It's all mine, you see, even to its proportions." "And the pictures?" "I selected them," she nodded, "every one of them, and loved them onto the walls myself. Although Dick did quarrel with me over that Vereschagin. He agreed on the two Millets and the Corot over there, and on that Isabey; and even conceded that some Vereschagins might do in a music room, but not that particular Vereschagin. He's jealous for our local artists, you see. He wanted more of them, wanted to show his appreciation of home talent." "I don't know your Pacific Coast men's work very well," Graham said. "Tell me about them. Show me that--Of course, that's a Keith, there; but whose is that next one? It's beautiful." "A McComas--" she was answering; and Graham, with a pleasant satisfaction, was settling himself to a half-hour's talk on pictures, when Donald Ware entered with questing eyes that lighted up at sight of the Little Lady. His violin was under his arm, and he crossed to the piano in a brisk, business-like way and proceeded to lay out music. "We're going to work till lunch," Paula explained to Graham. "He swears I'm getting abominably rusty, and I think he's half right. We'll see you at lunch. You can stay if you care, of course; but I warn you it's really going to be work. And we're going swimming this afternoon. Four o'clock at the tank, Dick says. Also, he says he's got a new song he's going to sing then.--What time is it, Mr. Ware?" "Ten minutes to eleven," the musician answered briefly, with a touch of sharpness. "You're ahead of time--the engagement was for eleven. And till eleven you'll have to wait, sir. I must run and see Dick, first. I haven't said good morning to him yet."