here at seven-thirty? And I don't allow people to look at
those sketches. You said eight-thirty."

"I was afraid you'd change your mind, or something.
Besides, it's now twenty-two minutes to eight. And will you
tell the lady that's a wonderful idea about the chicken?
Only she'd better start now."

Goaded by time bulletins shouted through the closed door,
Fanny found herself tubbed, clothed, and ready for breakfast
by eight-ten. When she opened the door Clarence was
standing in the center of her little sitting room, waiting,
a sheaf of loose sketches in his hand.

"Say, look here! These are the real thing. Why, they're
great! They get you. This old geezer with the beard,
selling fish and looking like one of the Disciples. And
this. What the devil are you doing in a mail order house,
or whatever it is? Tell me that! When you can draw like
this!"

"Good morning," said Fanny, calmly. "And I'll tell you
nothing before breakfast. The one thing that interests me
this moment is hot coffee. Will you have some breakfast?
Oh, well, a second one won't hurt you. You must have got up
at three, or thereabouts." She went toward the tiny
kitchen. "Never mind, Princess. I'll wait on myself. You
go on with that chicken."

Princess was the kind of person who can fry a chicken, wrap