"As nearly as I can imagine this must look like the bower of a
Broadway Phryne. All that is missing is a family portrait in
crayon of the father who was a coal miner, the presence of a
buxom financial genius for the stage mother, and a Chinese
chow-dog on a cerise velvet cushion. But who ever attains
perfection here below?"
She lifted some filmy gowns which had arrived in the latest
parcel to her chin, peering over the sheerness of the lacy
cascade, into the mirror of the dressing-table.
"If good old Jack could see me now? Poor, old, stupid, dear,
silly Jack! I must write to him at once, for he is largely
responsible for my present unusual surroundings. How pleased
this would not make him, the old dear."
With the thought, she sat down before the escritoire, dipping a
pearl and gold pen, as she paused for the words with which to
begin the note. Another knock came at the door. It could not be
another gown. She had told Holloway to keep all her personal
baggage at the steamer dock until she had finished her lark! At
the portal a diminutive messenger delivered a large white box,
ornately bound in lavender ribbons.
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