"How do you do?" said Valerie, stopping on the sidewalk and offering her hand with a frank smile.
"I came to call on you," said the over-dressed little countess; "may I?"
"It is very kind of you. Will you come upstairs? There is no elevator."
The pretty bejewelled countess arrived in the living room out of breath, and seated herself, flushed, speechless, overcome, her little white gloved hand clutching her breast.
Valerie, accustomed to the climb, was in nowise distressed; and went serenely about her business while the countess was recovering.
"I am going to prepare luncheon; may I hope you will remain and share it with me?" she asked.
The countess nodded, slowly recovering her breath and glancing curiously around the room.
"You see I have only an hour between poses," observed Valerie, moving swiftly from cupboard to kitchenette, "so luncheon is always rather simple. Miss Tevis, with whom I live, never lunches here, so I take what there is left from breakfast."
[Illustration: The Countess d'Enver.]
A little later they were seated at a small table together, sipping chocolate. There was cold meat, a light salad, and fruit. The conversation was as haphazard and casual as the luncheon, until the pretty countess lighted a cigarette and tasted her tiny glass of Port—the latter a gift from Querida. "Do you think it odd of me to call on you uninvited?" she asked, with that smiling abruptness which sometimes arises from embarrassment.