“Could you?” echoed Win, more in the desire to turn Miss Leavitt’s attention from her “shirt waist” to something else than because she wished to hear about the great opportunity.

Miss Leavitt had offered her numerous opportunities of alleged entertainment, none of which, though glowingly described, had ever tempted her to acceptance.  At first she had been afraid of Lily’s fruit and chocolates and theatre tickets, which, like the marshmallows, might have come from Mr. Logan.  But for the last three or four months, since the two girls migrated together into Mantles, Logan had been conspicuously absent.  Apparently he had not invented a cloak as well as a toy!  Win no longer connected Lily Leavitt’s occasional invitations with him.  Her refusals were prompted merely by a disinclination for Lily’s society out of business hours and the conviction that her friends would be no more congenial than herself.  Winifred now, however, particularly wished to show her companion that she bore no animosity for the filched commission, therefore she became loquacious.

“I don’t need to spend my hard-earned dollars on a party dress, as it happens,” she said.  “I can save all my pennies for the hire of my typewriter, which is going to lead me from the Hands some day along the road to fortune.  I’ve got the most gorgeous gown you can possibly imagine.  I don’t believe Cinderella’s godmother could give her anything better.  There’s only one trouble.  I shall never be invited to a party good enough for it.”

“I’ve invited you to as swell a party as there could be in little old New York,” boasted Miss Leavitt.  “I ain’t foolin’.  That’s straight.  Honour bright, cross my heart.”

“Oh, but you didn’t invite me.  You said you would if I had a dress.  You’ve got only my word for that,” Win reminded her.

“I meant to invite you all the same, dress or no dress,” Lily confessed, “I’d o’ lent you one.  Have you really got something swell?  If you have, now’s your chance to show it off.  It’s an artist gives this party.  I sit to artists sometimes, Sundays, for my hair.  I guess you offen seen it on covers o’ magazines.  This artist friend o’ mine’s the best o’ the whole bunch.”

“Man or woman?” Win wanted to know.

She expected the answer to be “man,” but Lily did not seem to hear.  Her face looked dreamy.

“It’s the loveliest house where the party’ll be,” she said. “’Tain’t the artist’s own.  It’s some relation’s that’s lent it for the summer while they’re away at the seashore.  I bin there.  It’s in the Fifties, just off Fift’ Av’noo.  Tonight it’ll be cool as snow, and everything’ll be iced for supper.  Iced consummay, chicken salad cold as the refrigerator, iced champagne cup flowin’ like water; ice-cream and strawb’ries, the big, sweet, red ones from up north, where they keep on growin’ all summer, and lilies and roses from the country to give away to us when we go home.”