criss-crossed over her ankles, and on the top of each slipper was a
gilt butterfly that fluttered.

Yet with all this bewildering effect of frivolity, the first term I'd
make use of in describing Vick's character would be Touch-me-not. I
believe there's a flower called that--_noli me tangere_--or some such
name. Well, that's Vicky Van. She'd laugh and jest with you, and then
if you said anything by way of a personal compliment or flirtatious
foolery, she was off and away from your side, like a thistle-down in a
summer breeze. She was a witch, a madcap, but she had her own way in
everything, and her friends did her will without question.

Her setting, too, just suited her. Her living room was one of those
very narrow, very deep rooms so often seen in the New York side
streets. It was done up in French gray and rose, as was the dictum of
the moment. On the rose-brocaded walls were few pictures, but just the
right ones. Gray enameled furniture and deep window-seats with
rose-colored cushions provided resting-places, and soft rose-shaded
lights gave a mild glow of illumination.

Flowers were everywhere. Great bowls of roses, jars of pink carnations
and occasionally a vase of pink orchids were on mantel, low bookcases
or piano. And sometimes the odor of a cigarette or a burning pastille
of Oriental fragrance, added to the Bohemian effect which is, oftener
than not, discernible by the sense of smell.

Vicky herself, detested perfumes or odors of any kind, save fresh
flowers all about. Indeed, she detested Bohemianism, when it meant
unconventional dress or manners or loud-voiced jests or songs.