to day till, now, at the last minute, she was constrained to rise
early, with a rushed and remorseful feeling. A situation familiar to
many artists.

She succeeded in concentrating herself upon the work with the
greatest difficulty. For, after breakfast, there began a great
bustling with brooms and carpet-sweepers and dusters; and, no sooner
was the house swept than appeared a gay and chattering swarm to
garnish it: "Marble Hearts" with collected "potted palms" and "cut
flowers" and cheesecloth draperies of blue and gold--the "club
colours" which, upon the sudden need for club colours, had been
suddenly adopted.

Missy betook herself to her room, but it was filled up with two of
the girls and a bolt of cheesecloth; to the dining room, but there
was no inspiration in the sight of Marguerite polishing the spare
silver; to the side porch, but one cannot work where giggling girls
sway and shriek on tall ladders, hanging paper-lanterns; to the
summerhouse, but even to this refuge the Baby followed her, finally
upsetting the water-colour box.

The day went rushing past. Enticing odours arose from the kitchen.
The grocery wagon came, and came again. The girls went home. A
sketchy lunch was eaten off the kitchen table, and father stayed
down town. The girls reappeared. They overran the kitchen, peeling
oranges and pineapples and bananas for "heavenly hash." Marguerite
grew cross. The Baby, who missed his nap, grew cross. And Missy, for
some reason, grew sort of cross, too; she resented the other girls'
unrestrainable hilarity. They wouldn't be so hilarious if it were
their own households they were setting topsy-turvy; if they had