t was too late
to get her for tonight. I'll bring her over next week."

"Right-o," said Bruce genially. "We're all strong for Constance, you
know. Besides being a paint slinger of promise, she's the straight
goods. See as much of her as you can, little sister, for she's the sort
that true friends are made of."

Patricia really liked Constance immensely and had it not been for the
overshadowing Rosamond, would have chosen her for the close intimacy for
which Constance had shown she was quite ready and willing. But she had a
feeling that in so praising Constance, Bruce was neglecting Rosamond,
and she said rather petulantly:

"I can't be always looking her up, Bruce. You know she's busy and out of
the house most of the time. It would be different if she were studying
with Tancredi like Rosamond."

Bruce opened his eyes at this unusual peevishness on Patricia's part,
but he went on mixing his ingredients without comment, while Elinor, who
had been bringing in the rest of the picnic supper, flitted about,
straightening the room preparatory to lighting the candles for the
feast.

As she picked up Bruce's overcoat from the divan, some letters fell out
of the pockets, scattering over the floor. She stooped to collect them,
and gave an exclamation of surprise.

"Bruce Hayden, when did these come?" she asked, sorting the letters
rapidly into little piles on the table at his elbow.

Bruce regarded the envelopes with undisguised astonishment, and then he
broke into a guilty grin.

"Oh, thunder, I must have forgotten them!" he cried. "How in creation
did you unearth them?"

Elinor explained, while Patricia eagerly seized on one addressed to her
in Bruce's care and began to tear it open.

"It's from Madame Milano!" she cried excitedly. "Oh, Elinor, she's
inviting me to her afternoon reception today, and it's hours and hours
too late."

Bruce looked crestfallen. "But is Milano in town?" he argued. "She isn't
singing till Tuesday night, you know----"

Patricia thrust the sheet before him. "See for yourself," she said. "It
says the seventeenth, doesn't it? Look, Elinor, what a big sprawling
hand she writes."

Bruce shook his head dolefully over the clearly written date. "It's
today, all right," he admitted ruefully. "You've lost a jolly fine
chance of seeing opera folk at home, thanks to my block-headedness."

Judith joined the group, and when she heard of Patricia's misfortune she
put a consoling arm about her siste