She was late,—nearly three-quarters of an hour late, when she arrived at Albert Smull’s apartment on Park Avenue.
A man servant directed her to a rear room fitted amazingly like the boudoirs she had read about.
It was a charming place hung with a sort of silvery rose-silk; and on an ivory-tinted dresser everything that femininity could require, brand new and sealed.
But Eris spent only a moment at the mirror, and, the next, she was shaking hands with Albert Smull in a delightful lounging room, slightly aromatic with a melange of flowers and tobacco.
“I’m sorry to be late,” she said with smiling concern, “but I’m so relieved to find that Mr. Donnell hasn’t yet arrived.”
“We won’t wait dinner for him anyway,” said Smull with his near and eager smile. “He’ll have to take his chances, Eris.... I say, you’re stunning in that gown!”
“Oh, do you like it?” she said politely.
He repeated emphatically his admiration; seemed inclined to touch the black fabric; expatiate on fashion, suitability, harmony of snowy skin, red hair, and the smartness of dead black—“Only the young dare wear it, and usually they’re too stupid to until they’re too old to.”
A grave-faced servant brought three cocktails.
“Come, now, Eris, it’s time you learned,” he insisted. “Be a good fellow and you won’t be sorry. I’ve got to drink Frank’s cocktail anyway. You’ll have it on your conscience if I have to drink yours too!”