he gaudy with which the rich
surround themselves because good taste forbids them to talk of
their wealth and such surroundings do the talking for them and
do it more effectively. He would have preferred even a vulgar
glitter to the unobtrusiveness of those rooms. But he knew
that Susan was right, and he was a very human arrant coward
about admitting that he had bad taste.

"This is beautiful--exquisite," said he, with feigned
enthusiasm. "I'm afraid, though, it'll be above their heads."

"What do you mean?" inquired Susan.

Palmer felt her restrained irritation, hastened to explain.
"I mean the people who'll come here. They can't appreciate
it. You have to look twice to appreciate this--and people,
the best of 'em, look only once and a mighty blind look it is."

But Susan was not deceived. "You must tell me what changes
you want," said she. Her momentary irritation had vanished.
Since Freddie was paying, Freddie must have what suited him.

"Oh, I've got nothing to suggest. Now that I've been studying
it out, I couldn't allow you to make any changes. It does
grow on one, doesn't it, Brent?"

"It will be the talk of Paris," replied Brent.

The playwright's tone settled the matter for Palmer. He was
content. Said he:

"Thank God she hasn't put in any of those dirty old tapestry
rags--and the banged up, broken furniture and the patched crockery."

At the same time she had produced an effect of long tenancy.
There was nothing that glittered, nothing with the offensive
sheen of the brand new. There was in that delicately toned
atmosphere one suggestion which gave the same impression as
the artificial crimson of her lips in contrast with the pallor
of her skin and the sweet thoughtful melancholy of her eyes.
This suggestion came from an all-pervading odor of a heavy,
languorously sweet, sensuous perfume--the same that Susan
herself used. She had it made at a perfumer's in the faubourg
St. Honore by mixing in a certain proportion several of the
heaviest and most clinging of the familiar perfumes.
"You don't like my perfume?" she said to Brent one day.

He was in the library, was inspecting her _selections_ of
books. Instead of answering her question, he said:

"How did you find out so much about books? How did you find
time to read so many?"

"One always finds time for what one likes."

"Not always," said he. "I had a hard stretch once--just after
I struck New York. I was a waiter for two mon