her.

She walked up a steep, narrow flight of carpeted stairs; this
terminated in a long, low room, the walls of which were of black
oak, and which was nearly filled with a gaily dressed crowd of men
and women. The sensuous music of a string band fell on her ear; the
smell of tea and the indefinable odour of women were borne to her
nostrils. A card was put in her hand, telling her that a palmist
could be consulted on the next floor. In and out among the tables,
attendants, clad in the garb of sixteenth century Flemish peasant
women, moved noiselessly.

Mavis got a table to herself in a corner by a window which
overlooked the street. She ordered tea and toast. When it was
brought, she did her best to put her extremity out of sight; she
tried hard to believe that she, too, led a happy, butterfly
existence, without anxious thought for the morrow, without a care in
the world. The effort was scarcely a success, but was, perhaps,
worth the making. As she sat, she noticed a kindly-looking old
gentlewoman who was pointing her out to a companion; for all the old
woman's somewhat dowdy garb, she had rich woman stamped all over
her. The old lady kept on looking at Mavis; once or twice, when the
latter caught her eye, the elder woman smiled. When she rose to go,
she came over to Mavis and said:

"Forgive me, my dear, but your hair looks wonderful against that
imitation oak."

"Does it? But it isn't imitation too," replied Mavis.