Mrs. McLane had called on Mrs. Talbot. That was known to all San
Francisco, for her carriage had stood in front of the Occidental
Hotel for an hour. Kind friends had called to offer their services in
setting the new house in order, but were dismissed at the door with
the brief announcement that Mrs. McLane was having the blues. No one
wasted time on a second effort to gossip with their leader; it was
known that just so often Mrs. McLane drew down the blinds, informed
her household that she was not to be disturbed, disposed herself on
the sofa with her back to the room and indulged in the luxury of
blues for three days. She took no nourishment but milk and broth and
spoke to no one. Today this would be a rest cure and was equally
beneficial. When the attack was over Mrs. McLane would arise with a
clear complexion, serene nerves, and renewed strength for social
duties. Her friends knew that her retirement on this occasion was
timed to finish on the morning of her reception and had not the least
misgiving that her doors would still be closed.

The great double parlors of her new mansion were thrown into one and
the simple furniture covered with gray rep was pushed against soft
gray walls hung with several old portraits in oil, ferrotypes and
silhouettes. A magnificent crystal chandelier depended from the high
and lightly frescoed ceiling and there were side brackets beside the
doors and the low mantel piece. Mrs. McLane may not have been able to
achieve beauty with the aid of the San Francisco shops, but at least
she had managed to give her rooms a severe and stately simplicity,
vastly different from the helpless surrenders of her friends to
mid-victorian deformities.

The rooms filled early. Mrs. McLane stood before the north windows
receiving her friends with her usual brilliant smile, her manner of