rystalline,
uncontaminated fountain of inspiration."

Lily Collis dropped her hands from Stephanie's and her brother's
shoulders:

"Do ask us to tea to meet her, Louis," she coaxed.

"We've never seen a model--"

"Do you want me to exhibit a sensitive girl as a museum freak?" he
asked, impatiently.

"Don't you suppose we know how to behave toward her? Really, Louis,
you--"

"Probably you know how to behave. And I can assure you that she knows
perfectly well how to behave toward anybody. But that isn't the
question. You want to see her out of curiosity. You wouldn't make a
friend of her--or even an acquaintance. And I tell you, frankly, I don't
think it's square to her and I won't do it. Women are nuisances in
studios, anyway."

"What a charming way your brother has of explaining things," laughed
Stephanie, passing her arm through Lily's: "Shall we reveal to him that
he was seen with his Valerie at the St. Regis a week ago?"

"Why not?" he said, coolly, but inwardly exasperated. "She's as
ornamental as anybody who dines there."

"I don't do _that_ with _my_ stenographers!" called out Cameron
gleefully, cleaning up three odd in spades. "Oh, don't talk to me,
Louis! You're a gay bunch all right!--you're qualified, every one of
you, artists and models, to join the merry, merry!"

Stephanie dropped Lily's arm with a light laugh, swung her tennis bat,
tossed a ball into the sunshine, and knocked it over toward the tennis
court.

"I'll take you on if you like, Louis!" she called back over her
shoulder, then continued her swift, graceful pace, white serge skirts
swinging above her ankles, bright hair wind-blown--a lithe, full,
wholesome figure, very comforting to look at.

"Come upstairs; I'll show you where Gordon's shoes are," said his
sister.

Gordon's white shoes fitted him, also his white trousers. When he was
dressed he came out of the room and joined his sister, who was seated on
the stairs, balancing his racquet across her knees.

"Louis," she said, "how about the good taste of taking that model of
yours to the St. Regis?"

"It was perfectly good taste," he said, carelessly.

"Stephanie took it like an angel," mused his sister.

"Why shouldn't she? If there was anything queer about it, you don't
suppose I'd select the St. Regis, do you?"

"Nobody supposed there was anything queer."

"Well, then," he demanded, impatiently, "what's the row?"

"There is no row. Stephanie doesn't make what you ca