like with you there." "Why, Amarilly!" A really pained look came into
his boyish eyes. "I thought we were friends. And you let Miss King and
your minister come--"

"But you see," argued Amarilly, "it's diff'rent with them. A minister
has to go everywhere, and he's used to seeing all kinds of houses; and
then Miss King, she's a sort of a--settlement worker."

"I see," said Derry. "But, Amarilly, to be a true artist, or a writer,
one must see all sorts and conditions of life. But I am not coming for
that. I am coming because I like you and want to meet your family."

"Well," agreed Amarilly, resigned, but playing her last trump, "you
haven't had your dinner yet."

"We had a very late luncheon, if you remember, and I am invited to a
supper after the theatre to-night, so I am not dining."

Amarilly did not respond to his light flow of chatter on the way home.
She halted on the threshold of her home, and looked at him with despair
in her honest young eyes.

"Our house hasn't got any insides or any stairs even. Just a ladder."

"Good! I knew you wouldn't--that you couldn't have a house like anyone's
else. It sounds interesting and artistic. Open your door to me,
Amarilly."

Slowly she opened the door, and drew a sigh of relief. The big room was
"tidied" ("redded" having been censored by Derry some time ago) and a