irst day I was downtown I
overheard two ladies saying something about the new Latin Quarter. That
mystified me, because I knew the town had been lidded tight since Lon
Price went out of office as mayor. Then I meet Mrs. Judge Ballard in the
Boston Cash Store and she says have I met a Miss Smith from New York who
is visiting here. I said I had not. It didn't sound exciting. Some way "a
Miss Smith" don't excite you overly, no matter where she hails from. So I
dismissed that and went on with my shopping. Next I meet Egbert Floud,
who is also down for the winter to rest beside a good coal stove, and we
ask each other what's the good word and is anything new. Cousin Egbert
says nothing is new in Red Gap except a Bohemian glass blower from
Grinitch Village, New York. He says he ain't seen her blow glass yet,
but he's going some night, because them Bohemian glass blowers down to
the fair was right fascinating, and don't I think Grinitch is a bum name
for a town? He says when I see this glass blower I'll feel like asking
animal, vegetable, or mineral, because he has seen her in the post office
with Metta Bigler and she looks like a nut.

I tell the poor old zany he sounds simple-minded himself and I can't make
a lick of sense out of what he's said, except I know this village ain't
spelled that way. He's telling me that's the way it's spoken anyway, and
about how he brought home a glass watch chain that these Bohemians blowed
at the fair, when along come Metta Bigler herself and stops to shake
hands, so Cousin Egbert slinks off.

I got to tell you about Metta. She's our artist; gives lessons in oil
painting and burnt wood and other refinements. People can take six
lessons off Metta and go home and burn all the Indian heads on leather
sofa pillows that you'd ever want to see. Also she can paint a pink fish
and a copper skillet and a watermelon with one slice cut out as good as
any one between here and Spokane. She's a perfectly good girl, falling on
thirty, refers to herself without a pang as a bachelor girl, and dresses
as quiet as even a school-teacher has to in a small town.

Well, Metta rushes up to me now, all glowing and girlish, and says
I must come to her studio that very afternoon and meet her dear old
chum, Vernabelle Smith, that is visiting her from Washington Square,
New York. She and Vernabelle met when they were completing their art
education in the Latin Quarter of Chicago, and Vernabelle had gone down
to New Yor