It is appallingly honest, dangerously young in spirit and it is rather too intense sometimes, keyed up unduly with ambition and emotion and the eagerness of living.

But wicked?
Not a bit of it! And the heavenly, inconsequent, infectious, absurd gaiety of it! The Lady Who Owns the Parrot (Pollypet is the bird's name) appears in a new hat; a gorgeous, new hat, with a band of scarlet and green feathers.
"Whence the more than Oriental splendour ?" demands in surprise the Poet from the Third Floor, who knows that the Lady is not patronising Fifth Avenue shops at present.
"Pollypet is moulting!" explains the Lady of the Parrot, with a laugh.
Dear, merry, kindly, pitiful life of the studios!--irresponsible, perhaps, and not of vast economic importance, but so human and so enchanting; so warm when it is bitter cold, so rich when the larder is empty, so gay when disappointment and failure are sitting wolf-like at the door.
A rich woman who loves the Village and often-times goes down there to buy her gifts rather than get them from the more conservative places uptown, told me that once when she went to a Village gift-shop to purchase a number of presents, she found the proprietor away.

She was asked to pick out what she wanted, and make a list.

She did.

Nobody even questioned her accuracy.