"Oh, yes," she repeated. "Mrs. Kilpatrick is in parlor A. She said she would be glad to see you a little later."
Clayton bowed. "And I won't say farewell," he said, "as I'll surely see you at dinner."
"The stage," repeated Martha, dreamily, after he had gone, sinking into one of the large chairs and placing both hands to her throbbing temples. "The stage. Why not? Why not?"
CHAPTER IV
A GLIMPSE INTO THE PAST
"This is the sun parlor, Pinkie," cried Flossie, ushering in the girl who had just found a haven of refuge and a sanctuary for the penniless at the Springs. "My word, but we do put on style at this rest-cure. I'm having the time of my young life."
Pinkie Lexington gazed around her, and sighed with relief. The well-dressed women in the distance made her instinctively think of her own somewhat bedraggled tailor-made suit, badly wrinkled from the train journey. Even at its best, it suggested the "Take me home for $12.99" signs of the bargain counters. Furthermore, Pinkie's hat was of the early spring vintage, and the ribbon was faded. Her pride and her glory had always been her hair, large blond masses of which protruded from beneath the rim of her straw hat, but a visit to a hair-dresser was a luxury Pinkie had not known in months. Added to this, Pinkie had become unusually heavy—and therefore always in need of the most perfect grooming in order to keep up appearances—and it may be easily understood that she was not appearing to the best advantage. This fact Flossie had noticed with keen inward delight, for her own smartness and prettiness naturally took on added luster when placed in contrast with poor Pinkie's poverty.
But Pinkie sighed with contentment. Notwithstanding a few personal deficiencies of dress and adornment, it was a relief to be in a hotel where one could be assured of three excellent meals a day.