“Lots.  Here.—­Splendid!  ‘Marie Antoinette’ going from the revolutionary tribunal—­that will be capital.”

“Who will take that?” said Daisy.

“Let me see.  I think—­I think, Daisy, it must be Theresa Stanfield.  She is a clever girl, and it must be a clever girl to do this.”

“But she will not look as old as she ought.”

“Yes she will, when she is dressed.  I know who will be our dresser, too; Mrs. Sandford.”

“Will she?” said Daisy.

“Yes.  She knows how, I know.  You and I must go and give invitations, Daisy.”

“Mamma will send the invitations.”

“Yes, of course, to the party; but we have got to beat up recruits and get contributions for the tableaux.  You and I must do that.  I engaged to take all the trouble of the thing from aunt Felicia.”

“Contributions, Preston?”

“Of people, Daisy.  People for the tableaux.  We must have all we can muster.”

“I can’t see how you will make Theresa Stanfield look like that.”

“I cannot,” said Preston laughing,—­“but Mrs. Sandford will do part and Theresa herself will do the other part.  She will bring her face round, you will see.  The thing is, who will be that ugly old woman who is looking at the queen with such eyes of coarse fury—­I think I shall have to be that old woman.”

“You, Preston!” And Daisy went off into a fit of amusement.  “Can you make your eyes look with coarse fury?”

“You shall see.  That’s a good part.  I should not like to trust it to anybody else.  Alexander and Hamilton Rush will have to be the Queen’s guards—­how we want Ransom.  Charley Linwood is too small.  There’s George, though.”

“What does that woman look at the queen so for?”

“Wants to see her head come down—­which it did soon after.”

“Her head come down?”—­

“It had come down pretty well then, when the proud, beautiful queen was exposed to the looks and insults of the rabble.  But they wanted to see it come down on the scaffold.”

“What had she been doing, to make them hate her?”

“She had been a queen;—­and they had made up their minds that nobody ought to be queen, or anything else but rabble; so her head must come off.  A great many other heads came off; for the same reason.”

“Preston, I don’t think the poor would hate that kind of thing so, if the rich people behaved right.”

“How do you think rich people ought to behave?” said Preston gravely, turning over the engravings.

Daisy’s old puzzle came back on her; she was silent.

“Common people always hate the uncommon, Daisy.  Now what next?—­Ah! here is what will do.  This is beautiful.”

“What is it?”

“Portia and Bassanio.  He has just got that letter, you know.”

“What letter?”

“Why, Antonio’s letter.  O don’t you know the story?  Bassanio was Antonio’s friend, and—­O dear, it is a long story, Daisy.  You must read it.”