liked, how she liked: the face of a woman who had taught
hundreds of gilded young men the true art of fetching and carrying,
and who, by twenty years or so of parental spoiling, had come to
regard herself as the feminine equivalent of the Tsar of All the
Russias. Such women are only made in America, and they only
come to their full bloom in Europe, which they imagine to be a
continent created by Providence for their diversion.

The young lady by the window glanced disapprovingly at the menu
card. Then she looked round the dining-room, and, while admiring
the diners, decided that the room itself was rather small and plain.
Then she gazed through the open window, and told herself that
though the Thames by twilight was passable enough, it was by no
means level with the Hudson, on whose shores her father had a
hundred thousand dollar country cottage. Then she returned to the
menu, and with a pursing of lovely lips said that there appeared to
be nothing to eat.

'Sorry to keep you waiting, Nella.' It was Mr Racksole, the intrepid
millionaire who had dared to order an Angel Kiss in the
smoke-room of the Grand Babylon. Nella - her proper name was
Helen - smiled at her parent cautiously, reserving to herself the
right to scold if she should feel so inclined.

'You always are late, father,' she said.

'Only on a holiday,' he added. 'What is there to eat?'

'Nothing.'