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."