cing--" She hesitated, then calmly: "But I believe father told
us that we are not to mention our pretty underwear, though it's hard not
to, as it's the first we ever had."

Harrow was past all speech.

"I wish I had my lounging-suit on," she said with a sigh and a hitch of
her perfectly modeled shoulders.

"W--what sort of things do you usually dress in?" he ventured.

"Why, in dress-reform clothes!" she said, laughing. "We never have worn
anything else."

"Bloomers!"

"I don't know; we had trousers and blouses and sandals--something like
the pink pajamas we have for night-wear now. Formerly we wore nothing at
night. I am beginning to wonder, from the way people look at us when we
speak of this, whether we were odd. But all our lives we have never
thought about clothing. However, I am glad you like my new gown, and I
fancy I'll get used to this tight lacing in time.... What is your name?"

"James Harrow," he managed to say, aware of an innocence and directness
of thought and speech which were awaking in him faintest responsive
echoes. They were the blessed echoes from the dim, fair land of
childhood, but he did not know it.

"James Harrow," she repeated with a friendly nod. "My name is Lissa--my
first name; the other is Guilford. My father is the famous poet,
Clarence Guilford. He named us all after butterflies--all my
sisters"--counting them on her white fingers while her eyes rested on
him--"Chlorippe, twelve years old, that pretty one next to my father;
then Philodice, thirteen; Dione, fourteen; Aphrodite, fifteen; Cybele,
the one next to me, sixteen, and almost seventeen; and myself,
seventeen, almost eighteen. Besides, there is Iole, who married Mr.
Wayne, and Vanessa, married to Mr. Briggs. They have been off on Mr.
Wayne's yacht, the _Thendara_, on their wedding trip. Now you know all
about us. Do you think you would like to know us?"

"_Like_ to! I'd simply love to! I----"

"That is very nice," she said unembarrassed.

"I thought I should like you when I saw you leaning over and listening
so reverently to father's epigrams. Then, besides, I had nobody but my
sisters to talk to. Oh, you can't imagine how many attractive men I see
every day in New York--and I should like to know them all--and many _do_
look at me as though they would like it, too; but Mr. Wayne is so queer,
and so are father and Mr. Briggs--about my speaking to people in public
places. They have told me not to, but I--I--thought I wou