concession to the prejudices of society.

"Mrs. Tommy is a brilliant woman in her way," Mr. Ticke
added; "she edits the _Boudoir_--I might say she created
the _Boudoir_. They call her the Queen of Arcadia. She
has a great deal of manner."

"What does Mr. Tommy Morrow do?" Elfrida asked. But
Golightly could not inform her as to Mr. Tommy Morrow's
occupation.

The rooms were half full when they arrived, and as the
man in livery announced them, "Mrs. Morrow, Miss Bell,
and Mr. Golightly Ticke," it seemed to Elfrida that
everybody turned simultaneously to look. There was nobody
to receive them; the man in livery published them, as it
were, to the company, which she felt to be a more effective
mode of entering society, when it was the society of the
arts. She could not possibly help being aware that a
great many people were looking in her direction over Mrs.
Tommy Morrow's shoulder. Presently it became obvious that
Mrs. Tommy Morrow was also aware of it. The shoulder was
a very feminine shoulder, with long lines curving forward
into the sulphur-colored gown that met them not too
prematurely. Mrs. Tommy Morrow insisted upon her shoulder,
and upon her neck, which was short behind but long in
front in effect, and curved up to a chin which was somewhat
too persistently thrust forward. Mrs. Tommy had a pretty
face with an imperious expression. "Just the face," as
Golightly murmured to Elfrida, "to run the _Boudoir_."
She seemed to know everybody, bowed right and left with
varying degrees of cordiality, and said sharply, "No shop
to-night!" to a thin young woman in a high black silk,
who came up to her exclaiming, "Oh, Mrs. Morrow, that
function at Sandringham has been postponed." Presently
Mrs. Morrow's royal progress was interrupted by a gentleman
who wished to present Signer Georgiadi, "the star of the
evening," Golightly said hurriedly to Elfrida. Mrs. Morrow
was very gracious, but the little fat Italian with the
long hair and the drooping eyelids was atrociously
embarrassed to respond to her compliments in English. He
struggled so violently that Mrs. Morrow began to smile
with a compassionate patronage which turned him a
distressing terra-cotta. Elfrida looked on for a few
minutes, and then, as one of the group, she said quietly
in French, "And Italian opera in England, how do you find
it, Signor?"

The Italian thanked her with every feature of his expressive
countenance, and burst with polite enthusiasm into his