WHITEWASH
thing to a height of six feet was obscured by the weaving, elbowing, chattering crowd that filled the room, a kaleidoscope of all feminine textures and hues, plentifully besprinkled with the sober colors of the male visitors, for the hostess prided herself that men were never lacking for her "at homes." Mrs. Durham darted between the entering groups like a busy shuttle in the animated web, and seized on the attention of a weary-eyed woman draped in a Spanish shawl.
"Dear madame," she cried, "as wonderful as ever—but you are all so wonderful. I have brought my very dear friend, Miss Claudel. She is of the elect."
The hostess enveloped the newcomer in an intent, thoughtful gaze. "Such words of praise from you, dear Muse, more than ensure her sisterhood among us. Miss Claudel, we are a little circle of souls tightly drawn to one another by the bonds of the mind and heart. Our welcome is sincere. Carl!" she called, dolorously. A long-haired gentleman in 1830 costume rose from his reclining position over the grand piano, and advanced with Delsartean grace. "Carl, our dear
