Regis decorations and Henry James--and they did it not badly.
Medora sat in transport. Music--wild, intoxicating music made by
troubadours direct from a rear basement room in Elysium--set her
thoughts to dancing. Here was a world never before penetrated by her
warmest imagination or any of the lines controlled by Harriman. With
the Green Mountains' external calm upon her she sat, her soul flaming
in her with the fire of Andalusia. The tables were filled with
Bohemia. The room was full of the fragrance of flowers--both mille
and cauli. Questions and corks popped; laughter and silver rang;
champagne flashed in the pail, wit flashed in the pan.
Vandyke ruffled his long, black locks, disarranged his careless tie
and leaned over to Madder.
"Say, Maddy," he whispered, feelingly, "sometimes I'm tempted to pay
this Philistine his ten dollars and get rid of him."
Madder ruffled his long, sandy locks and disarranged his careless
tie.
"Don't think of it, Vandy," he replied. "We are short, and Art is
long."
Medora ate strange viands and drank elderberry wine that they poured
in her glass. It was just the color of that in the Vermont home. The
waiter poured something in another glass that seemed to be boiling,
but when she tasted it it was not hot. She had never felt so
light-hearted before. She thought lovingly of the Green Mountain farm
and its fauna. She leaned, smiling, to Miss Elise.
"If I were at home," she said, beamingly, "I could show you the
cutest little calf!"
"Nothing for you in the White Lane," said Miss Elise.
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