with some pinkish powder as smooth as silk. Then somebody else put on
his dinner-clothes and looked the finest man in the world. Then you
dished up the hot part of the dinner, and the creamy sweet was all
ready at the other end of the table--so easy to arrange these things
gracefully without a parlourmaid, you know--and absolutely
_everything_ was accomplished.

You sat down.

Love was about and around you.

What delicious soup by a clever wee cook!

Was there happiness at table? There was not greater happiness in
heaven.




CHAPTER IV

DREAMS


"You'll lie still, Mrs. Kerr," said Osborn, when they awoke for the
first time in their own flat, "and I shall bring you a cup of tea."

"But," said the drowsy Marie, raising herself on an elbow, with all
her shining hair--far prettier than any one of the pinky caps with
which she loved to cover it--falling over her childish white