The young man nodded. “That doesn’t include the refreshments, you understand. It’s for the design only—the design for a stunty party with features. And then think of all the pleasure you’ll be giving. But—I forgot; the young lady who let me in said you were going to close your shop for Christmas. Perhaps that means that you won’t be here to run a party on Christmas eve.”
Betty smiled sadly. “We were just discussing that and we’ve decided—at least, I’ve decided, to keep open during the holidays. But we’re very busy.” She considered, frowning. “It all depends on whether Madeline likes the idea,” she decided at last. “I’ll call her down, and you can tell her about it.”
“Oh, wait one minute,” he begged, as Betty started off. “Tell me how to make her like it, please. Is she the one who let me in?”
“No,” Betty told him, “but of course Babbie will have to approve too.” She stopped to consider again. “I’d tell you how to make Madeline like it if I knew myself, but I don’t. It just depends on how a thing strikes her.”
But when Madeline and Babbie appeared, Betty did help by breaking the ice, for she gravely presented “Mr. Fence” to the other members of the firm, whereupon Madeline promptly told him about his pseudonym at the Tally-ho, and then, rather abashed by her own temerity, lit the candles in the stalls to show him how she had named them that very evening, according to his suggestion.
So they were all, except Babbie, very friendly, when they sat down again to discuss Mr. Thayer’s order; and Mr. Thayer seemed to have decided that it was safest to ignore Babbie, for he addressed himself entirely to Madeline, as he explained again what he wanted.
And of course, because it was absurd and unexpected, Madeline liked the idea. She forgot how busy they were already, and how she hated conducting rehearsals and working out details. She threw her Literary Career to the winds.
“You want it on Christmas eve?” she began briskly. “Then we’ll have a masque of the Christmas stockings to start off with. Isn’t that an appropriate touch for the stocking-makers’ Christmas party? How old are your youngest stocking-makers, please?”
“They say they’re fourteen, as the law requires,” explained Mr. Thayer grimly, “but you’d never know it. Anyhow they’re small enough to do beautifully for a masque of the Christmas stockings.”
“And then,” Madeline went on, staring hard at the shiny tip of Babbie’s slipper, “and then—well, Twelfth Night isn’t till the sixth of January, but probably the stocking-makers won’t object to anticipating the date a little. We’ll have a pageant of Twelfth Night cakes and Twelfth Night bakers. And we’ll choose and crown a King and Queen of the Revels, in accepted Twelfth Night style. Does that sound promising to you, Mr. Thayer?”