swallowed up in it. Never in all my boarding-house
experience have I seen such a room, or such a closet.
The closet must have been built for a bride's trousseau
in the days of hoop-skirts and scuttle bonnets. There
was a separate and distinct hook for each and every one
of my most obscure garments. I tried to spread them out.
I used two hooks to every petticoat, and three for my
kimono, and when I had finished there were rows of hooks
to spare. Tiers of shelves yawned for hat-boxes which I
possessed not. Bluebeard's wives could have held a
family reunion in that closet and invited all of
Solomon's spouses. Finally, in desperation, I gathered
all my poor garments together and hung them in a sociable
bunch on the hooks nearest the door. How I should have
loved to have shown that closet to a select circle of New
York boarding-house landladies!

After wrestling in vain with the forest of hooks, I
turned my attention to my room. I yanked a towel thing
off the center table and replaced it with a scarf that
Peter had picked up in the Orient. I set up my
typewriter in a corner near a window and dug a gay
cushion or two and a chafing-dish out of my trunk. I
distributed photographs of Norah and Max and the
Spalpeens separately, in couples, and in groups. Then I
bounced up and down in a huge yellow brocade chair and
found it unbelievably soft and comfortable. Of course,
I reflected, after the big veranda, and the apple tree at
Norah's, and the leather-cushioned comfort of her
library, and the charming tones of her Oriental rugs and