essed extravagantly in a decollete gown of blue silk. Curtis Jadwin
and Cressler himself stood by the open fireplace smoking. Landry Court
fidgeted on the sofa, pretending to listen to the Gretry girl, who told
an interminable story of a visit to some wealthy relative who had a
country seat in Wisconsin and who raised fancy poultry. She possessed,
it appeared, three thousand hens, Brahma, Faverolles, Houdans,
Dorkings, even peacocks and tame quails.

Sheldon Corthell, in a dinner coat, an unlighted cigarette between his
fingers, discussed the spring exhibit of water-colors with Laura and
Mrs. Cressler, Page listening with languid interest. Aunt Wess' turned
the leaves of a family album, counting the number of photographs of
Mrs. Cressler which it contained.

Black coffee had just been served. It was the occasion of the third
rehearsal for the play which was to be given for the benefit of the
hospital ward for Jadwin's mission children, and Mrs. Cressler had
invited the members of the company for dinner. Just now everyone
awaited the arrival of the "coach," Monsieur Gerardy, who was always
late.

"To my notion," observed Corthell, "the water-color that pretends to be
anything more than a sketch over-steps its intended limits. The
elaborated water-color, I contend, must be judged by the same standards
as an oil painting. And if that is so, why not have the oil painting at
once?"

"And with all that, if you please, not an egg on the place for
breakfast," declared the Gretry girl in her thin voice. She was
constrained, embarrassed. Of all those present she was the only one to
mistake the character of the gathering and appear in formal costume.
But one forgave Isabel Gretry such lapses as these. Invariably she did
the wrong thing; invariably she was out of place in the matter of
inadvertent speech, an awkward accident, the wrong toilet. For all her
nineteen years, she yet remained the hoyden, young, undeveloped, and
clumsy.

"Never an egg, and three thousand hens in the runs," she continued.
"Think of that! The Plymouth Rocks had the pip. And the others, my
lands! I don't know. They just didn't lay."

"Ought to tickle the soles of their feet," declared Landry with
profound gravity.

"Tickle their feet!"

"Best thing in the world for hens that don't lay. It sort of stirs them
up. Oh, every one knows that."

"Fancy now! I'll write to Aunt Alice to-morrow."

Cressler clipped the tip of a fresh cigar, and, turning