Sylvia was worth watching as she pulled her tam o’ shanter over her head, her face all aglow.

“I’ve undervalued your ‘samples,’ as you call them, my lamb,” she chatted on.  “Of course you must take lessons and be a legitimate something some day—­a singer, I fancy, but in the meantime we must utilize what we have.”

On the way through the frosty streets Sylvia grew more mystifying.

“It’s putting the punch in these days that counts, Joan.  You are to be—­the punch.  Eats are all right in their way, but folks do not live by bread alone; they flourish—­or tea rooms do—­on punch.”

Joan, running along beside Sylvia, accepted the rambling talk without question.  Her acquaintance with tea rooms was limited, but she had caught Sylvia’s mood.

“Just imagine,” Sylvia was a bit breathless; “a cold, dreary afternoon outside—­a warm, bright tea room with enchanting tables drawn close to an open fire, and someone—­you, my lamb—­singing a ballad, when there is a lull—­in the offings!  Why, Elspeth is as good as made if she has the wit to grab you—­and Elspeth is no fool.”

Joan began to see the opening ahead.

“Oh!” she drawled—­the word lasted a half block and ended in a mocking laugh.

“Could I dance in costume?” she asked, tossing her head, “or tell fortunes as I used to at school?  Do you remember, Syl, how I went to the kitchen door, once, and took the maids all in, and then Miss Tibbetts came down to see what was going on, and I read her palm—­and——­” but here Joan stopped short physically.  “What’s the matter, Syl?” she said.

“Why, of course!” Sylvia was regarding Joan impartially.  “They might object to having you break in on their silly tea-talk, the police might raid the place if you danced—­but palm reading!  Oh! my dear, you’ve struck it in the dark.  Hurry!”

And hurry they did, arriving at the Bonny Brier Bush a few minutes later in rather a breathless but radiant state.

The proprietress, Elspeth Gordon, was a tall, slender woman, no longer young, but carrying herself with a dignity that amounted almost to majesty.  She was gowned in crisp lavender linen with immaculate white collars and cuffs and was standing in the middle of her Big Experiment, as she termed it, when Joan and Sylvia burst in.

“All ready but the opening of the door—­legitimately,” she said, smiling on Sylvia and bowing cordially to Joan.  “Doesn’t it look inviting?” She gave a broad glance to the sweet, orderly room:  the small tables, glass covered; the rose-chintz covers and draperies; the clear fire on the broad, old-fashioned hearth, and the blossoming rose bushes on the window sills.

“It certainly does,” Sylvia replied with enthusiasm.

“I’ve put everything I own into this venture,” Elspeth went on; “if I fail, I’m done for.”

For all her years of discretion and her plain common sense, Elspeth Gordon’s mouth and tone betrayed the artistic temperament.  Upon that Sylvia was banking.