scorching toast. Then came the sound of scraping. But she prudently refused the dingy slices, remembering where the loaf had lain.
There was a chair for Christabel. The others sat on the floor at her feet. Elliott, Peabody Baxter, whose drawings sometimes appeared in The Dial, a Russian model, and a timid youth who kept on a large muffler throughout for fear his collar was not clean enough for this radiant being.
The Russian understood no English, but turned his face to each speaker, his mouth full of scorched toast, his childlike eyes shining happily.
"Isn't it dreadfully sloppy?"
"Dreadfully! The penalty of spring is slush."
"Did you notice my primroses, Elliott? They make me feel four years old again, with apple cheeks and a fresh white pinny."
If there had been no primroses in her childhood, there were plenty in the Kate Greenaway books that she had almost succeeded in forget
