CHAPTER IX


The surplice, carefully laundered after the funeral, was ready for new
fields of labor. The tenor, first patron of Amarilly's costuming
establishment, was wont to loiter in the studio of an artist he knew and
relate his about-town adventures. This artist was interested in the
annals of the little scrub-girl and her means of livelihood.

"I have in mind," he said musingly, "a picture of a musician, the light
to be streaming through a stained window on his uplifted head as he sits
at an organ."

"The Lost Chord?" inquired the tenor.

"Nothing quite so bromidic as that," laughed the artist. "I have my
model engaged, and I had intended to have you borrow a surplice for me,
but you may ask your little customer to rent me her gown for a couple of
days."

On receipt of this request delivered through the medium of the ticket-
seller, Amarilly promptly appeared at the studio. She was gravely and
courteously received by the artist, Derry Phillips, an easy-mannered
youth, slim and supple, with dark, laughing eyes. When they had
transacted the business pertaining to the rental of the surplice,
Amarilly arose from her chair with apparent reluctance. This was a new
atmosphere, and she was fascinated by the pictures and the general air
of artistic disarrangement which she felt but could not account for.

"'Tain't exactly the kind of place to tidy," she reflected, "but it