of rattan. On the beds were covers of Oriental cottons, and the
window-curtains showed the same elementary designs in pinks and
blues.

"She dresses very prettily, I thought," observed Mr. White, apropos
of his wife's last remark.

"Dresses!" echoed his wife. "She dresses as your mother might!"

"Very pretty, very pretty!" said the man absently, over his book.

There was a silence. Then:

"That just shows how much men notice," Mrs. White confided to her
ivory-backed brush. "I believe they LIKE women to look like frumps!"




CHAPTER VII

These were busy days in the once quiet and sleepy office of the
Santa Paloma Morning Mail. A wave of energy and vigor swept over the
place, affecting everybody from the fat, spoiled office cat, who
found himself pushed out of chairs, and bounced off of folded coats
with small courtesy, to the new editor-manager and the lady whose
timely investment had brought this pleasant change about. Old Kelly,
the proof-reader, night clerk, Associated Press manager, and
assistant editor, shouted and swore with a vim unknown of late
years; Miss Watson, who "covered" social events, clubs, public