“Don’t be one of the women who are ready to sell their birthrights for a meal ticket,” Patricia urged, looking her daintiest and saintliest.

“But what is one’s birthright?” Joan asked.

“The self-expression of—­yourself,” Patricia smiled serenely.

This always reinstated Joan in her old resolve.

“To come to town and cut capers at the Brier Bush,” she confided to
Sylvia, once Patricia was off the scene, “is poor proof of anything. 
Syl, I’m going to get to work seriously soon with my music.”

“We’ll get a piano,” practical Sylvia suggested; “there is no need to grow rusty while you’re making money.”

And so they secured the piano, and the studio had another charm.

The Brier Bush, in the meantime, was waxing great in popularity and financial success.  Elspeth Gordon from her position of assurance gave it a unique touch.  No one could take liberties with her tea room.  Presently delicious luncheons were added to the scheme, and, while Joan’s part was regarded with amused complacency, the excellent food and service commanded respect.

At first women came largely to the pretty, attractive rooms; then, occasionally, men, rather timidly, presented themselves, but finding themselves taken for granted and the food above reproach, they appeared in numbers and enjoyed it.

And then one rather gloomy, early spring day Mrs. Tweksbury came upon the scene.

Joan knew her at once, although the old face was more wrinkled and delicate.

Of course Mrs. Tweksbury had not the slightest inkling concerning Joan’s movements, and she looked upon the veiled young creature moving about the tea room with a cool, calm stare of amused disapproval.

“Quite a faddish thing you’re making of your venture,” she said to Elspeth Gordon, for of course with a bishop for a grandfather Miss Gordon was taken for granted.  Elspeth smiled her most dignified smile and replied graciously: 

“Just a bit of amusement, Mrs. Tweksbury.  It helps digestion and, incidentally, helps business.”

“But the—­the young woman, Miss Gordon—­is she a professional?”

“Have you tested her, Mrs. Tweksbury?”

“Oh! no, my dear Miss Gordon.”  Mrs. Tweksbury had beautiful old hands and she turned the palms up while she considered them.

“Suppose you judge for yourself, Mrs. Tweksbury.”  Elspeth was charmingly easy in her manner.

“Who is she?” bluntly asked the old lady.

“Ah!” And here Elspeth recoiled.  “My palmist and my best recipes are sacred to me, Mrs. Tweksbury.  But may I call my little seer to you?”

Mrs. Tweksbury consented, and when Joan looked at the pink, soft palm a spirit of mischief possessed her.

Skirting as near as she dared to the facts in her possession, she gently, but startlingly, took the owner of the hand at a disadvantage.

At first Mrs. Tweksbury was confirmed in her idea that the girl before her was a society girl—­her general knowledge could be explained by that, but suddenly Joan became more daring—­she vividly recalled much that she had heard Doris say in defence of the old woman whom Nancy and she feared and often ridiculed.