“Oh, well, as to that—” Lorena LeMar shrugged her shoulders. “Shake ’em, every one of them. Tell them that Lorena LeMar, meaning you, is doing a picture, a vastly important picture, going to make you famous and all that. Tell ’em you are in mourning or something like that, no parties, no nothing until this picture is made.”
“I—I see,” Jeanne replied.
“And that,” she thought aside, “is perhaps more true than you think.”
Once again her gaze swept the room. Could she do it, live like an American queen for two weeks?
Costly paintings were on the walls, the sort she loved. Inch-deep Oriental rugs were on the floor. Against the broad wall was a great friendly hearth where a real wood fire burned. Heavy draperies were everywhere.
“Those Oriental embroideries, threads of silver and gold,” she thought suddenly. “How they would fit in here!
“But no! No! It must never be! I—”
“If you’ll step in here for a moment,” the movie queen threw open a door, “I will show you my wardrobe.”
“It’s rather poor,” she apologised. “Some good things, though.”
Jeanne found herself in a sleeping chamber. The opening of a second door revealed row upon row of coats and gowns. Here squirrel, mink and ermine vied with silk and satin.