centuries again into her own time.

The room was a glitter of white and rose; the windows, unscreened,
admitted the warm glow of late afternoon, and windows and doorway
and bed were smothered in rose and white hangings. A white
triple-mirrored dressing-table gleamed with gold and ivory pieces; a
white fur rug was stretched before a rose silk divan billowy with
plump pillows, and an open door beyond gave a view of shining tile
and a porcelain bath. Near her was a baby grand piano in white
enamel--reminding her of one she had seen in the White House--and
she noted absently a pile of gaudily covered music upon it
betokening tunes different from the Brahms she had heard downstairs.

The maid indicated a pitcher of hot water in the bathroom--evidently
pipes and faucets played no part with the shining tub--and then
stepped outside, closing the door.

After an instant's hesitation, Arlee took off her hat and bathed her
face and hands, then moved slowly to the dressing table to glance at
her hair. Hesitantly she picked up the shining brush and stared at
the flourish of an unintelligible monogram upon the back. Whose
brush was this? Whose room was she in? The place, vivid, silken,
scented, was fairly breathing with occupancy.

She laid down the brush without using it, touched her hair with
absent fingers, and crossed to the windows. She looked down into a
garden, a deep tangle of a garden, presided over by a huge lebbek
tree that threw a pall of shadow upon the faintly moving flowers
beneath.