“Oh, I forgot them,” cried Clytie somewhat shamefacedly. “You must not look at them, please. They are not part of the show. Miss Marchpane gets tired of flowers and peach-bloom, and sometimes——”

“Clytie!” cried Winifred reproachfully.

Clytie laughed; and Kent with her. The light jest brought them nearer together.

“No; I do that when I feel wicked,” said Clytie. “I paint a nice, correct little picture for the nice, correct people who are going to buy it, and then I grow angry with them and feel I should like to shock them, take the stiffening out of them, reduce them to elemental bits of humanity. Look at this group of street urchins. I am doing that on order for my dealer. Here is Jack—. . . Read More