Past you, as you ramble distractedly
through the mossy halls, flit audible visions of houris, with veiled,
starry eyes, flying tag-ends of things and a swish of silk,
bequeathing to the dull hallways an odor of gaiety and a memory of
_frangipanni_. Serious young comedians, with versatile Adam's apples,
gather in doorways and talk of Booth. Far-reaching from somewhere
comes the smell of ham and red cabbage, and the crash of dishes on
the American plan.
The indeterminate hum of life in the Thalia is enlivened by the
discreet popping--at reasonable and salubrious intervals--of
beer-bottle corks. Thus punctuated, life in the genial hostel scans
easily--the comma being the favorite mark, semicolons frowned upon,
and periods barred.
Miss D'Armande's room was a small one. There was room for her rocker
between the dresser and the wash-stand if it were placed
longitudinally. On the dresser were its usual accoutrements, plus the
ex-leading lady's collected souvenirs of road engagements and
photographs of her dearest and best professional friends.
At one of these photographs she looked twice or thrice as she darned,
and smiled friendlily.
"I'd like to know where Lee is just this minute," she said,
half-aloud.
If you had been privileged to view the photograph thus flattered, you
would have thought at the first glance that you saw the picture of a
many-petalled white flower, blown through the air by a storm. But the
floral kingdom was not responsible for that swirl of petalous
whiteness.
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