Did you see a memory sketch she did for the
final exhibition at the League? It was a tall girl in black standing up
singing and a beautiful red-headed girl in diaphanous blue playing an
accompaniment on a guitar, with a background of holly and a great bunch
of mistletoe at one side." Pierce stopped suddenly in the midst of his
description of Judy's picture and, gazing intently at Molly, cried out,
"By the great jumping jingo, if Miss Brown isn't the red-headed girl in
diaphanous blue!"

"Yes, I saw it," exclaimed Elise, "and thought it was wonderfully
clever. Miss Kean got a splendid likeness of you, considering it was
from memory."

"Oh, Judy has sketched me until she says doing me is almost as easy as
writing her name. That must have been the Christmas party at Professor
Green's when Melissa Hathaway was singing 'The Mistletoe Bough.' I
remember Judy sat opposite us and I almost laughed out because she kept
making pictures in the air with her thumb, which is a habit of hers when
anything appeals to her as paintable. Won't it be splendid to see her
again? Are you both going to Paris? You know Judy is there now and my
mother and I are to join her."

"Glorious!" exclaimed the enthusiastic Pierce. "Of course I am going
there; but how about you, Miss O'Brien?"

"Oh, I am to be there for a while, but my art is not considered
seriously enough for me to stick at it long enough to accomplish much.
Mother thinks Paris is nothing but one big shop, and when she has bought
all the clothes we are supposed not to be able to be decent without, we
have to go on. I am going to work while she shops. Thank goodness, she
is so fussy that it takes her twice as long to get an outfit as it would
anyone else, so I shall have time to get in some work," answered the
girl bitterly.

Just then the gong was sounded for dinner. There was a general movement
toward the saloon and the growing darkness prevented Molly from seeing
the resentment on the face of Mrs. Huntington, if resentment she held,
at the daughter's rudeness toward her.

"Such a nice girl," thought Molly, "and so clever and beautiful! But
how, how can she be so horrid to her mother? There is no telling what
provocation she has, though. Her mother was certainly not honest about
the chairs; but then, your mother is your mother. Thank goodness, Aunt
Clay is not mine!"

Molly hastened to her own mother's side and they made their way to the
first meal on board.

CHAPTER II