sounds snappy." But his
exuberance died in a sigh. A block down Harpoon Street they saw a sign,
light-encircled, tea-pot shaped, hung out from a great elm. Without
explanations they turned toward it.

They passed a mansion of those proud old days when whalers and China
traders and West-Indiamen brought home gold and blacks, Cashmere shawls
and sweet sandalwood, Malay oaths and the jawbones of whales. The
Applebys could see by the electric lights bowered in the lilac-bushes
that a stately grass walk, lined with Madonna lilies and hollyhock and
phlox, led to the fanlight-crested white door, above which hung the
mocking tea-pot sign. The house was lighted, the windows open. To the
right of the hall was the arts-shop where, among walls softened with
silky Turkish rugs and paintings of blue dawn amid the dunes, were
tables of black-and-white china, sports hats, and Swiss toys, which the
Grimsby summer colony meekly bought at the suggestion of the sprightly
Miss Mitchin.

To the left was the dining-room, full of small white candle-lighted
tables and the sound of laughter.

"Gosh! they even serve supper there!" Father's voice complained. He
scarcely knew that he had spoken. Like Mother, he was picturing their
own small tea-room and the cardboard-shaded oil-lamp that lighted it.

"Come, don't let's stand here," said Mother, fiercely, and they trailed
forlornly past. They were not so much envious as in awe of Miss
Mitchin's; it seemed to belong to the same unattainable world as Newport
and the giant New York hotels.

The Applebys didn't know it, but Grimsby Center had become artistic.
They couldn't know it, but that sharp-nosed genius-hound Miss Mitchin
was cashing in on her _salon_. She came from Brookline, hence
Massachusetts Brahmins of almost pure caste could permit themselves to
be seen at her tea-room. But nowadays she spent her winters in New York,
as an artistic photographer, and she entertained interior decorators,
minor fiction-writers, and minus poets with free food every Thursday
evening. It may be hard to believe, but in A.D. 1915 she was still
calling her grab-bag of talent a "_salon_." It was really a saloon, with
a literary free-lunch counter. In return, whenever they could borrow the
price from commercialized friends, the yearners had her take their
photographs artistically, which meant throwing the camera out of focus
and producing masterpieces which were everything except likenesses.

When Miss Mitchin