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
needs cleaning turrible."
"Do you like pictures?" asked the young artist, following her gaze.
"Stay a while and look at them, if you wish."
Amarilly readily availed herself of this permission, and rummaged about
the rooms while Derry pursued his work. Upon the completion of her tour
of inspection, he noticed a decided look of disapproval upon her face.
"What is the matter, Miss Jenkins? Aren't the pictures true to life?" he
inquired with feigned anxiety.
"The picters is all right," replied Amarilly, "but--"
"But what?" he urged expectantly.
"Your rooms need reddin' up. Thar's an orful lot of dust. Yer things
will spile."
"Oh, dust, you know, to the artistic temperament, is merely a little
misplaced matter."
"'Tain't only misplaced. It's stuck tight," contended Amarilly.
"Dear me! And to think that I was contemplating a studio tea to some
people day after to-morrow, I suppose it really should be 'red up'
again. Honestly though, I engage a woman who come every week and clean
the rooms."
"She's imposed on you," said Amarilly indignantly. "She's swept the dirt
up agin the mopboards and left it thar, and she hez only jest skimmed
over things with a dust-cloth. It ain't done thorough."
"And are you quite proficient as a _blanchisseuse?"_
Amarilly looked at him unperturbed.
"I kin scrub," she remarked calmly.
"I stand rebuked. Scrubbing is what they need. If you will come
to-morrow morning and put these rooms in order, I will give you a dollar
and your midday meal."
Amarilly, well satisfied with her new opening, closed the bargain
instantly.
The next morning at seven o'clock she rang the studio bell. The artist,
attired in a bathrobe and rubbing his eyes sleepily, opened the door.
"This was the day I was to clean," reminded Amarilly reprovingly.
"To be sure. But why so early? I thought you were a telegram."
"Early! It's seven o'clock."
"I still claim it's early. I have only been in bed four hours."
"Well, you kin go back to bed. I'll work orful quiet."
"And I can trust you not to touch any of the pictures or move anything?"
"I'll be keerful," Amarilly assured him. "Jest show me whar to het up
the water. I brung the soap and a brush."
The artist lighted a gas stove, and, after carefully donning a long-
sleeved apron, Amarilly put the water on and began operations. Her eyes
shone with anticipation as she looked about her.
"I'm glad it's so dirty," she remarked. "It's more interestin' to clean
a dirty place. Then what you do shows up, and you feel you earnt your
money."
With a laugh the artist returned to his bedroom, whence he emerged three
hours later.
"This room is all cleaned," announced Amarilly. "It took me so long
'cause it's so orful big and then 'twas so turrible dirty."
"You must have worked like a little Trojan. Now stop a bit while I
prepare my breakfast."
"Kin you cook?" asked Amarilly in astonishment.
"I can make coffee and poach eggs. Come into my butler's pantry and
watch me."
Amarilly followed him into a small apartment and was initiated into the
mysteries of electric toasters and percolators.
He tried in vain to induce her to share his meal with him, but she
protested.
"I hed my breakfast at five-thirty. I don't eat agin till noon."
"Oh, Miss Jenkins! You have no artistic temperament or you would not
cling to ironclad rules."
"My name's Amarilly," she answered shortly. "I ain't old enough to be
'missed' yet."
"I beg your pardon, Amarilly. You seem any age," he replied, sitting
down to his breakfast, "You are not too old, then, for me to ask what
your age is--in years?"
"I jest got into my teens."
"Thirteen. And I am ten years older. When is your birthday?"
"It's ben. It was the fust of June."
"Why, Amarilly," jumping up and holding out his hand, "we are twins!
That is my birthday."
"And you are twenty-three."
"Right you are. That is my age at the present moment. Last night I was
far older, and to-morrow, mayhap, I'll be years younger."
"Be you a Christian Science?" she asked doubtfully.
"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.
We will go right out now to a nice little restaurant near by and eat our
luncheon together."
Amarilly flushed.
"Thank you, Mr. Derry. That's orful nice in you, but I'd ruther eat
here. Thar's the toast and coffee to het, and an aig--"
"No! You are going to have a good, square meal and eat it with me. You
see I had to eat my birthday dinner all alone, so we'll celebrate the
first of June now, together. Slip off your apron. By the way, some day I
shall paint a picture of you in that apron scrubbing my 'mopboard.'"
Amarilly shook her head.
"I don't look fit to go nowhars with you, Mr. Derry."
"Vanitas, and the rest of it! Oh, Amarilly, only thirteen, and the
ruling passion of your sex already in full sway!"
"It's on your account that I'm ashamed," she said in defence of his
accusation. "I'd want ter look nice fer you."
"That's sweet of you, Amarilly; but if you really want to look nice,
don't think of your clothes. It's other things. Think of your hair, for
instance. It's your best point, and yet you hide it under a bushel and,
worse than that, you braid it so tight I verily believe it's wired."
"I'm used to bein' teased about my red head," she replied. "I don't
keer."
"It's a glorious red, Amarilly. The color the vulgar jeer at, and
artists like your friend and twin, Derry, rave over. You're what is
called 'Titian-haired,'"
"Are you makin' fun, Mr. Derry?" she asked suspiciously.
"No, Amarilly; seriously, I think it the loveliest shade of hair there
is, and now I am going to show you how you should wear it. Unbind it,
all four of those skin-tight braids."
She obeyed him, and a loosened, thick mass of hair fell below her waist.
"Glorious!" he cried fervidly. "Take that comb from the top of your head
and comb it out. There! Now part it, and catch up these strands
loosely--so. I must find a ribbon for a bow. What color would you
suggest, Amarilly?"
"Brown."
"Bravo, Amarilly. If you had said blue, I should have lost all faith in
your future upcoming. Here are two most beautiful brown bows on this
thingamajig some one gave me last Christmas, and whose claim on creation
I never discovered. Let me braid your hair loosely for two and
one-quarter inches. One bow here--another there. Look in the glass,
Amarilly. If I give you these bows will you promise me never to wear
your hair in any other fashion until you are sixteen at least? Off with
your apron! It's picturesque, but soapy and exceedingly wet. You won't
need a hat. It's only around the corner, and I want your hair to be
observed and admired."
Amarilly gained assurance from the reflection of her hair in the mirror,
and they started gayly forth like two school children out for a lark. He
ushered her into a quiet little café that had an air of pronounced
elegance about it. In a secluded corner behind some palms came the
subdued notes of stringed instruments. Derry seemed to be well known
here, and his waiter viewed his approach with an air of proprietorship.
"It's dead quiet here," thought Amarilly wonderingly. "Like a church."
It was beginning to dawn upon her alert little brain that real things
were all quiet, not noisy like the theatre.
"What shall we have first, Amarilly?" inquired her new friend with mock
deference. "Bouillon?"
Amarilly, recalling the one time in her life when she had had
"luncheon," replied casually that she preferred fruit, and suggested a
melon.
"Good, Amarilly! You are a natural epicure. Fruit, certainly, on a warm
day like this. I shall let you select all the courses. What next?"
"Lobster," she replied nonchalantly.
"Fine! And then?"
"Grapefruit salad."
He looked at her in amazement, and reflected that she had doubtless been
employed in some capacity that had made her acquainted with luncheon
menus.
"And," concluded Amarilly, without waiting for prompting, "I think an
ice would be about right. And coffee in a little cup, and some cheese."
"By all means, Amarilly," he responded humbly. "And what kind of cheese,
please?"
"Now I'm stumped," thought Amarilly ruefully, "fer I can't 'member how
to speak the kind she hed."
"Most any kind," she said loftily, "except that kind you put in
mousetraps."
"Oh, Amarilly, you are a true aristocrat! How comes it that you scrub
floors? Is it on a bet?"
The waiter came up and said something to the artist in a low tone, and
Derry replied hastily:
"Nothing to-day." Then, turning to Amarilly, he asked her if she would
like a glass of milk. Upon her assent, he ordered two glasses of milk,
to the veiled surprise of the waiter.
When the luncheon was served, Amarilly, by reason of her good memory,
was still at ease. The children at the Guild school had been given a few
general rules in table deportment, but Amarilly had followed every
movement of Colette's so faithfully at the eventful luncheon that she
ate very slowly, used the proper forks and spoons, and won Derry's
undisguised admiration.
"Mr. Vedder's, good," she thought. "Mr. St. John's grand, but this 'ere
Mr. Derry's folksy. I'd be skeert settin' here eatin' with Mr. St. John,
but this feller's only a kid, and I feel quite to hum with him."
"Amarilly," he said confidentially, as they were sipping their coffee
from "little cups," "you are truthful, I know. Will you be perfectly
frank with me and answer a question?"
"Mebby," she replied warily.
"Did you ever eat a luncheon like this before?"
"I never seen the inside of a restyrant afore," she replied.
"Now you are fencing. I mean, did you ever have the same things to eat
that we had just now?"
Amarilly hesitated, longing to mystify him further, but it came over her
in a rush how very kind he had been to her.
"Yes, I hev. I'll tell you all about it."
"Good! An after-dinner story! Beat her up, Amarilly!"
So she told him of her patroness and the luncheon she had eaten at her
house.
"And I watched how she et and done, and she tole me the names of the
things we hed. I writ them out, and that was my lesson that night with
the Boarder."
Then, of course, Derry must know all about the Boarder and the brothers.
After she had finished her faithful descriptions, it was time to return
to the studio. Her quick, keen eyes had noted the size of the bill Derry
had put on the salver, and the small amount of change he had received.
She walked home beside him in troubled silence.
"What's the matter, Amarilly?" he asked as she was buttoning on her
apron preparatory to resuming work. "Didn't the luncheon agree with you,
or are you mad at me? And for why, pray?"
Amarilly's thin little face flushed and a tear came into each thoughtful
eye.
"I hedn't orter to hev tole you ter git all them things. I was atryin'
ter be smart and show off, but, honest, I didn't know they was agoin'
ter cost so much. I ain't agoin' ter take no money fer the cleanin', and
that'll help some."
Derry laughed rapturously.
"My dear child!" he exclaimed, when he could speak. "You are a veritable
little field daisy. You really saved me money by going with me. If I had
gone alone, I should have spent twice as much."
"How could that be?" she asked unbelievingly. "You would only hev give
one order, so 'twould hev ben jest half as much."
"But if you had not been with me, I should have had a cocktail and a
bottle of wine, which would have cost more than our meal. Out of
deference to your youth and other things, I forbore to indulge. So you
see I saved money by having you along. And then it was much better for
me not to have had those libations."
"Honest true?"
"Honest true, hope to die! Cross my heart and all the rest of it! I'd
lie cheerfully to some people, but never to you, Amarilly."
"My. Reeves-Eggleston--he's on the stage--said artists was allers poor."
"That's one reason why I am not an artist--a great artist. I am hampered
by an inheritance that allows me to live without working, so I don't do
anything worth while. I only dabble at this and that. Some day, maybe,
I'll have an inspiration."
"Go to work now," she admonished.
"I must perforce. My model's foot is on the stair."
Amarilly left the studio to resume her cleaning. At five o'clock she
came back. Derry stood at the window, working furiously at some fleecy
clouds sailing over a cerulean sky. She was about to speak, but
discerning that he must work speedily and uninterruptedly to keep pace
with the shifting clouds, she refrained.
"There!" he said. "I got it. You were a good little girl not to
interrupt me, Amarilly."
"It's beautiful!" gasped Amarilly. "I was afeard you'd git the sky blue
instead of purplish and that you'd make the clouds too white."
"Amarilly, you've the soul of an artist! In you I have found a true
critic."
"Come and see if the rooms is all right. I got 'em real clean. Every
nook and corner. And--"
"I know you did, Amarilly, without looking. I can smell the clean from
here."
"If thar's nothin' more you want did, I'll go hum."
"Here's a dollar for the rooms and two dollars for the surplice.
Amarilly, you were glad to learn table manners from Miss King, weren't
you?"
"Yes; I like to larn all I kin."
"Then, will you let me teach you something?"
"Sure!" she acquiesced quickly.
"There are two things you must do for me. Never say 'et'; say 'ate'
instead. Then you must say 'can'; not 'kin.' It will be hard to remember
at first, but every time you forget and make a mistake, remember to-day
and our jolly little luncheon, will you?"
"I will, and I _can_, Mr. Derry."
"You're an apt little pupil, Amarilly, and I am going to teach you two
words every time you come."
"Oh!" exclaimed Amarilly, brightening. "Will you want me ter come agin?"
"Indeed I shall. I am going away next week to the mountains for a couple
of months. When I come back, I am going to have you come every morning
at nine o'clock. You can prepare and serve my simple breakfast and clean
my rooms every day. Then they won't get so disreputable. I will pay you
what they do at the theatre, and it will not be such hard work. Will you
enjoy it as well?"
"Oh, better!" exclaimed Amarilly.
And with this naive admission died the last spark of Amarilly's
stage-lust.
"Then consider yourself engaged. You can call for the surplice to-morrow
afternoon at this hour."
"Thank you, Mr. Derry."
She hesitated, and then awkwardly extended her hand, which he shook most
cordially.
"Thank you for a day's entertainment, Amarilly. I haven't been bored
once. You have very nice hands," looking down at the one he still held.
She reddened and jerked her hand quickly away.
"Now you _are_ kiddin'! They're redder than my hair, and rough and big."
"I repeat, Amarilly, you have nice hands. It isn't size and color that
counts; it's shape, and from an artist's standpoint you have shapely
hands. Now will you be good, and shake hands with me in a perfectly
ladylike way? Thank you, Amarilly."
"Thank _you_, Mr. Derry. It's the beautifulest day I ever hed. Better'n
the matinée or the Guild or--" she drew a quick breath and said in a
scared whisper--"the church!"
"I am flattered, Amarilly. We shall have many ruby-lettered days like
it."