"Lord, no, child! I am an artist. What made you ask that?"

"'Cause they don't believe in age. Miss Jupperskin told me about 'em.
She's workin' up to it. But I must go back to my work."

"So must I, Amarilly. My model will be here in a few moments to don your
surplice. If you want to clean up my breakfast dishes you may do so, and
then tackle the bedroom and the rest of the apartment."

Three hours later, Amarilly went into the studio. The model had gone,
and the artist stood before his easel surveying his sketch with
approval.

"This is going to be a good picture, Amarilly. The model caught my idea.
There is some fore--"

"Mr. Phillips!"

"My name is Derry. I am too young to be 'mistered.'"

There was no response, and with a smile he turned inquiringly toward
her. There was a wan little droop about the corners of her eyes and lips
that brought contrition to his boyish heart.

"Amarilly you are tired! You have worked too steadily. Sit down and rest
awhile."

"'Tain't that! I'm hungry. Kin I het up the coffee and--"

"Good gracious, Amarilly! I forgot you ate at regular, stated intervals.