live here?"

She nodded impishly.

"And Thad, the cartoonist and Blythe Modder and--" she began reeling
off a victorious list of young celebrities.

"And that one little dressmaker discovered you all?" I asked, quite
awestricken, "How could she? What sort of a wonder was she? How can
you explain it?"

The girl swung her lithe self up on the table, clasped her narrow
hands about her knees and smiled benignly down upon me. She seemed
naively content with herself, relaxed and quiet after her tempestuous
storm of words.

"You can't explain it, you just accept it--just as you accept sunshine
and rain--you can't explain any more than you can describe. And she's
the sort of woman that all of us who dwell within this house will go
on all the rest of our lives trying to describe and I'll bet that not
all of us put together can tell more'n half that there is to tell
about her. Why, her very faults are different than other people's
faults! She has a pippin of a temper and such stub-stub-stubborn ways!
Don't you think Thad's cartoons of 'Temperamental Therese' are
peaches? Well, they are nothing but Felice in her illogical crotchety
unfair minutes--Thad says the only way to explain such heavenly
rudeness as Felicia's is to remember that she began being rude in
1817--"

"How old is she?" I fairly shouted, "Oh, please get down to earth and