't known how. They gathered daily in Metta's studio, the
women setting round in smocks, they all took to wearing smocks, of
course, while hungry-eyed Vernabelle got the men to tell her all about
themselves, and said wasn't it precious that a few choice spirits could
thus meet in the little half-lighted hour, away from it all, and be by
way of forgetting that outer world where human souls are bartered in the
market place.

Of course the elderberry wine was by way of giving plumb out after
the second half-lighted hour, but others come forward with cherished
offerings. Mrs. Dr. Percy Hailey Martingale brought round some currant
wine that had been laid down in her cellar over a year ago, and Beryl Mae
Macomber pilfered a quart of homemade cherry brandy that her aunt had
been saving against sickness, and even Mrs. Judge Ballard kicked in with
some blackberry cordial made from her own berries, though originally
meant for medicine.

Lon Price was a feverish Bohemian from the start, dropping in almost
every day to tell Vernabelle all about himself and get out of
convention's shell into the raw throb of life, as it was now being
called. Lon always was kind of light-minded, even after the state
went dry. He told Vernabelle he had a treasured keepsake hid away which
he would sacrifice to Bohemia at the last moment, consisting of one quart
bottle of prime old rye. And he was going to make over to her a choice
building lot in Price's Addition, right near the proposed site of the
Carnegie library, if Vernabelle would put up something snappy on it in
the way of a Latin Quarter bungalow.

Lon also added Jeff Tuttle to the Bohemians the day that old horned toad
got down from his ranch. After going once Jeff said darned if he hadn't
been a Bohemian all his life and never knew what was the matter with him.
Vernabelle had him telling her all about himself instantly. She said he
was such a colourful bit, so virile and red-blooded, and she just knew
that when he was in his untamed wilderness he put vine leaves in his
hair and went beautifully barefoot. She said it wasn't so much him as the
inevitability of him. She'd said this about Cousin Egbert, too, but she
was now saying of this old silly that he had a nameless pathos that cut
to her artist's heart. It seems Cousin Egbert had gone round a couple
times more looking for glass blowing and getting disappointed.

And there was new Bohemians every day. Otto Gashwiler, that keeps books
for