After the last night’s proceedings the room was a bower of gardenia, heliotrope, and tuberose, whose allied odours during slumber had bewildered just a little her head.
Flinging back the bed-clothes, she discovered as she did so a note.
“Sally,” she read, “Should you be conscious before I return, I’m only gone to market, cordially yours, R. Iris. Such mixed verdicts! I’ve arranged the early papers on your dressing-table. I could find no reference to me. This morning there were rat-marks again, and part of a mangled bat.”
“Oh, those ‘atmospherics’!” Miss Sinquier complained, finding somnolently her way into the inner room.
Here all was Italy—Even the gauze-winged aeroplane filled with sweets had an air of a silver water-fly from some serene trans-Alpine garden.
Dropping to a fine cassoni she perused with contracted brows a small sheaf of notices, the gist of which bore faint pencilled lines below.
“Her acting is a revelation.”
“We found her very refreshing.”
“There has been nothing like it for years.”
“Go to the Source.”