“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
ing a ponderous ass into a high and efficient type of man, to whom be should be glad to trust our lives.
Meantime, Lily Trevelyan had intended with the assistance of Fantlne to complete une grande toilette—her challenge to the flat-chested maiden ladies of whose acerbity she had been so unfortunately a victim, as she sat on deck. Her dressing-room blazed with electricity—in sharp contrast to the blackness outside. Her bath, gently lapping the porcelain edges of the tub (as the Pavonia began to throw up her nose against the storm) was faintly scented with rose water. Diaphanous linen things as soft as silk and as thin lay in lacy piles on a wicker chair. A huge gold powder puff box was open upon the dresser. A pair of chamois slippers edged with fur had been placed conveniently by the bath. Two soft, thick towels hung from the glass rod with a dozen embroidered linen ones. And across the brass bed had been carefully laid out the Paquin foulard dress with the chiffon trimming—that is, if dress it could properly be called, since it resembled rather a sort of skirt with a couple of loops and a handful of gauze above.
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