“Oh, but I love to do it!” protested Mrs. Burgoyne with her wide-eyed, childish look.  “You can’t really buy for them what you can do yourself, do you think so?  And now the other children are beginning to come in, and it’s such fun!  But that isn’t all.  I have editorial work to do, besides the Mail, you know.  I manage the ’Answers to Mothers’ column in a little eastern magazine.  I daresay you’ve never seen it; it is quite unpretentious, but it has a large circulation.  And these mothers write me, some of them factory-workers, or mothers of child-workers even, or lonely women on some isolated ranch; you’ve no idea how interesting it is!  Of course they don’t know who I am, but we become good friends, just the same.  I have the best reference books about babies and sickness, and I give them the best advice I can.  Sometimes it’s a boy’s text-book that is wanted, or a second-hand crib, or some dear old mother to get into a home, and they are so self-respecting about it, and so afraid they aren’t paying fair—­I love that work!  But, of course, it takes time.  Then I’ve been hunting up a music-teacher for the girls.  I can’t teach them that—­”

“I meant to speak to you of that,” Mrs. White said.  “There’s a Monsieur Posti, Emil Posti, he studied with Leschetizky, you know, who comes up from San Francisco every other week, and we all take from him.  In between times—­”

“Oh, but I’ve engaged a nice little Miss Davids from Old Paloma,” said Mrs. Burgoyne.

“From Old Paloma!” echoed three women together.  And Mrs. Apostleman added heavily, “Never heard of her!”

“I got a good little Swedish sewing-woman over there,” the hostess explained, “and she told me of this girl.  She’s a sweet girl; no mother, and a little sister to bring up.  She was quite pleased.”

“But, good heavens!  What does she know?  What’s her method?” demanded Mrs. White in puzzled disapproval.

“She has a pretty touch,” Mrs. Burgoyne said mildly, “and she’s bristling with ambition and ideas.  She’s not a genius, perhaps; but, then, neither is either of the girls.  I just want them to play for their own pleasure, read accompaniments; something of that sort.  Don’t you know how popular the girl who can play college songs always is at a house-party?”

“Well, really—­” Mrs. White began, almost annoyed; but she broke her sentence off abruptly, and Mrs. Apostleman filled the pause.

“Whatever made ye go over there for a dress-maker?” she demanded.  “We never think of going there.  There’s a very good woman here, in the Bank Building—­”

“Madame Sorrel,” supplemented Mrs. Adams.

“She’s fearfully independent,” Mrs. Lloyd contributed; “but she’s good.  She made your pink, didn’t she, Sue?  Wayne said she did.”

Mrs. Adams turned pink herself; the others laughed suddenly.

“Oh, you naughty girl!” Mrs. White said.  “Did you tell Wayne you got that frock in Santa Paloma?”