“I have it now!  Come, Tootcums, with me!  Mr. Sanderson will help us out.”  All of which came true; for Mr. Sanderson, ten minutes later, had bent his head close to the child’s lips to hear the better, and had said:  “Only two?  Why, Masie, you can have the lot.”  And that was how the bare corner was filled with three great palms—­the biggest he had in his shop—­and the grand salon of the Grande Duchesse Masie Beeswings de Kling at last made ready for her guests.

This done, Felix made a final inspection of the room, adding a touch here and there—­shifting a piece of pottery or redraping the frayed end of a square of tapestry —­and finding that everything kept its place in the general effect, without a single discordant note, drew Masie to a seat beside him on one of the old Venetian chests.  Here, with his arms about the enthusiastic child, he laid bare the next and to him the most important number on the programme.

And in this he wrought another upheaval, one almost as great as had taken place in the room.  The time-honored custom of all birthday parties entailing upon the invited the giving of presents as proof of affection, was not, he hinted gently, to be observed upon this occasion.  “It is Masie who is to give the presents,” he whispered, holding her closer, “and not her guests.”

The child at first had protested.  The long procession of guests coming up to hand her their gifts, and her fun next day when looking them over—­knowing how queer some of them would be—­had been part of her joyful anticipation, but Felix would not yield.

“You see, Masie, darling,” he coaxed, “now that you are going to be a real princess,” he was smoothing back her curls as he spoke, “you are going to be so high up in the world that nobody will dare to give you any presents.  That is the way with all princesses.  Kings and queens are never given presents on their birthdays unless their permission is asked, but, just because they are kings and queens, they give presents to everybody else.  And then again, Masie, dear, if you stop to think about it, people really get a great deal more fun out of giving things than they do of having things given to them.”

She succumbed, as she always did, when her “Uncle Felix,” with his voice lowered to a whisper, his lips held close to her ear, either counselled or chided her, and a new joy thrilled through her as he explained how his plan was to be carried out.

Kling lifted up his hands in protest when he heard of O’Day’s innovation, but was overruled and bowled over before he had framed his first sentence.  It was the sentiment, Felix insisted, which was to be considered, the good feeling behind the gift, not the cost of it.  He and Masie had worked it all out together, and please not to interfere.