USUALLY Friday was a day of drooping flowers and fish that had begun to smell, drooping and smelling among dusty gods and goddesses, complained of by those aproned young ladies who were drawing from the antique, and frowned at intently by those whose still-life studies they were. But this Friday the flowers were fresh—snowballs, so hard to arrange æsthetically, dark-blue iris, and heavy-headed peonies, red in the face, brought into town from suburban gardens; and there were no fish except the sardines in the sandwiches on the refreshment table.
The art students, too, were changed and glorified. Mouths that usually were stretched to hold extra paintbrushes under mustaches of charcoal dust smiled sweetly, spoke gently, and bit into sandwiches and macaroons with small ladylike bites, and painting aprons were replaced by best basques and kilted skirts. One girl in particular seemed to shine, from the tips of her bronze slippers to the face bright as pink and
