WHITEWASH
of a voluminous trunk. For a moment the air was thick with flying vesture as she dug diligently—much as a fox-terrier widens a woodchuck hole. She emerged with a gown, and held it up for inspection.
Mrs. Durham nodded. "Very good. Hurry up now and get beautiful."
"You're very slangy for a literary light," her friend observed, as she began a leisurely unhooking.
A half-hour skilfully employed produced two very striking chefs d'œuvres,—Mrs. Durham, pretty, slender, and blonde; Victoria, handsome, wholesome, and richly brunette. They stepped into the empty resonant corridor, and, after threading many devious mazes, emerged into a vestibule from which three doors opened. They were all ajar, and from beyond emanated a buzz of conversation and a chink of glasses. Mrs. Durham took the lead, and, pushing aside the bamboo curtains, they entered a large room, half drawing-room, half studio. The upper half, lighted by an immense glass window, covering nearly the whole wall space, was more or less
