She outlined her scheme to them. The reporters were to be sent for and informed that the great new American painter, sensation of this year's Salon, had kindly consented to a private exhibition of his masterpiece at her house for the benefit of the Cause. Tickets, one dollar each, to be limited to two hundred. “Then a bit about your both being Suffragists, and about Mary's writing, you know,” she threw in. “Note the value of the limited sale--at once it becomes a privilege to be there.” Tickets, she went on to explain, would be sent to the art critics of the newspapers, and Mr. Farraday would arrange to get Constantine himself and one or two of the big private connoisseurs. She personally knew the curator of the Metropolitan, and would get him. The press notices would be followed by special letters and articles by some of these men. Then Constantine would announce a two weeks' exhibition at his gallery, the public would flock, and the picture would be bought by one of the big millionaires, or a gallery. “I've arranged it all,” she concluded triumphantly, looking from one to the other with her dark alert glance. Stefan was grinning delightedly, his attention for the moment completely captured. Mary's sewing had dropped to her lap; she was round-eyed. “But the sale itself, Mrs. Elliot, you can hardly have arranged that?” she laughed. Constance waved her hand. “That arranges itself. It is enough to set the machinery in motion.” “Do you mean to say,” went on Mary, half incredulous, “that you can simply send for the reporters and get them to write what you want?” “Within reason, certainly,” answered the other. “Why not?” “In England,” Mary laughed, “if a woman were to do that, unless she were a duchess, a Pankhurst, or a great actress, they wouldn't even come.” Constance dismissed this with a shrug. “Ah, well, my dear, luckly we're not in England! I'm going to begin to-day. I only came over to get your permission. Let me see--this is the sixteenth--too near Christmas. I'll have the tickets printed and the press announcement prepared, and we'll let them go in the dead week after Christmas, when the papers are thankful for copy. We'll exhibit the first Saturday in the New Year. For a week we'll have follow-up articles, and then Constantine will take it. You blessed people,” and she rose to go, “don't have any anxiety. Suffragists always put things through, and I shall concentrate on this for the next three weeks. I consider the picture sold.” Mary tried to express her gratitude, but the other waved it aside. “I just love you both,” she cried in her impulsive way, “and want to see you where you ought to be--at the top!” She shook hands with Stefan effusively. “Mind you get on with your next picture!” she cried in parting; “every one will be clamoring for your work!”