Washington society had found that Mrs. Parsons was wealthy enough to indulge in her whims, and, bringing, as she did, letters of introduction from far-off California to influential residents of the national Capital, she had been entertained at houses to which newcomers frequently waited for years to gain the entrée. Well gowned, handsome rather than pretty, quick of wit, Mrs. Parsons soon attained a place for herself in the kaleidoscopic life of the cosmopolitan city, and, giving up her suite of rooms at the New Willard had, three months before, purchased a house on fashionable Wyoming Avenue.
On taking possession of what she termed her maisonnette, Mrs. Parsons decided that she had need of a social secretary. Kitty Baird had been highly recommended for the post by Charles Craige, and, after much urging on the part of both Mrs. Parsons and her godfather, Kitty had resigned her clerkship in the Department of State, which she had held during the World War, and taken up her secretarial duties.
And Kitty had been of genuine aid to her employer, as Mrs. Parsons acknowledged to herself if to no one else—she was chary of spoken praise. Kitty had not only an accurate knowledge of social life in Washington, having enjoyed belleship since her first “tea dance” at Rauscher’s which one of her aunt’s old friends had given in her honor, but possessed unbounded tact and a kindly heart. Her aunt, Miss Susan Baird, had seen to it that she was well educated and thoroughly grounded in French and German. Having a natural gift for languages, Kitty had put her early training to good account in her war work as a translator and code expert.
To James’ secret distress, Mrs. Parsons partook but indifferently of the deliciously cooked dinner, even refusing dessert which, to his mind, was inexplicable.
“Has Miss Kitty Baird telephoned at any time to-day?” she asked, laying down her napkin.
“No, Madam.” James concealed his surprise. It was not like Mrs. Parsons to repeat herself, and to his best recollection, and he had a good memory, she had asked that same question at least a dozen times. “Will you have coffee served in the drawing room, Madam?”
“I don’t care for coffee to-night, thanks.” Mrs. Parsons picked up her scarf and rose. “Tell Anton that if any one calls this evening, I am at home.”
“Very good, Madam,” and James held back the portières for her as she left the room.
Mrs. Parsons did not return to the drawing room: instead she made her way to the “den” at the end of the hall, a pretty square room, which served as a lounge and library. Once there she paused by the telephone stand and laid her hand on the instrument.
“West, 789.” She was forced to repeat the number several times before Central got it correctly.