ner"

A Letter

_The Sherwood_

58 West 57th St.

My Dear Dora:

We are just home from dining in one of the smartest houses in New York,
and I've been bored so wide awake I can't think of going to bed, so I
am sitting in my petticoat (that charming white silk, much-festooned,
and many-flounced one you brought me over from Paris) and a dressing
sack (pink, not so very unbecoming). My hair is down, but Dick doesn't
paint it any more--it's getting thin, dear!--and I've nice little
swansdown lined slippers over my best white silk-stockings. I've worn
to-night the best of everything my wardrobe affords, and I wasn't
ashamed of myself! No, I was much more ashamed of the Westingtons, and
I'm going to tell you all about it before I touch the pillow! I'm sure
you'll be amused.

In the first place, to be honest, we were rather pleased to be asked.
There is no one smarter than the W.'s, and, besides, they are
attractive and good-looking. The truth is, we've always been anxious to
go to their house--heaven knows why, now that we've been. We are
sufficiently punished, however, for being so foolish as to be flattered
by our invitation. For, my dear, we weren't asked to a swell dinner at
all; we were invited to what was intended for a "Bohemian" affair (but
it was only a dull and ungainly one), and it was apparently taken for
granted that, as Dick painted and I hadn't millions, we were decidedly
eligible. Of course, as you know, there is no such thing as a real
Bohemia in New York.

The dinner was given in honor (apparently) of the Hungarian pianist
Romedek and his wife. He has been an enormous success here this year,
and society has taken him up. But the trouble is with Madame Romedek;
no one is sure she _is_ Madame Romedek, and a great many people are
sure she isn't. She is a pretty, rather common-looking person, with no
particular intelligence or _esprit_. I am told she is more
communicative _under_ the table than she is over it; and I know some
men are crazy about her. Of course, she isn't a woman any of us can
stand for a moment. If Romedek were a painter we should know she'd been
his model, and be awfully sorry for him. But Romedek is a musician (a
great one--I wish you could hear him); and they say she hasn't even the
social prestige or poetic license of having been an artist's model, but
of having been something quite wrong to begin with. Naturally, you see,
some of society won't have her at any price. Those that m