Seventeen minutes after Miss Lynnette D'Armande had expressed her
wish to know the whereabouts of her old chum, there were sharp raps
at her door.
Doubt not that it was Rosalie Ray. At the shrill command to enter she
did so, with something of a tired flutter, and dropped a heavy
hand-bag on the floor. Upon my word, it was Rosalie, in a loose,
travel-stained automobileless coat, closely tied brown veil with
yard-long, flying ends, gray walking-suit and tan oxfords with
lavender overgaiters.
When she threw off her veil and hat, you saw a pretty enough face,
now flushed and disturbed by some unusual emotion, and restless,
large eyes with discontent marring their brightness. A heavy pile of
dull auburn hair, hastily put up, was escaping in crinkly, waving
strands and curling, small locks from the confining combs and pins.
The meeting of the two was not marked by the effusion vocal,
gymnastical, osculatory and catechetical that distinguishes the
greetings of their unprofessional sisters in society. There was a
brief clinch, two simultaneous labial dabs and they stood on the same
footing of the old days. Very much like the short salutations of
soldiers or of travellers in foreign wilds are the welcomes between
the strollers at the corners of their criss-cross roads.
"I've got the hall-room two flights up above yours," said Rosalie,
"but I came straight to see you before going up. I didn't know you
were here till they told me.
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