he ankles.
I'd called for J. Bayard at his hotel, and he'd shown up with the Major.
No figment of the imagination, either, the Major. He's a big, husky,
rich-colored party that's some imposin' and decorative in open-faced
togs; quiet and shy actin', though, just as Steele had said. I sort of
took to him, and we swaps friendly greetin's.

"All aboard now," says I, "and we'll collect our widow."

Which seems to startle the Major more or less. "I say, Bayard," he puts
in, "you didn't tell me she was a widow, you know. Perhaps, after all,
I'd best not----"

"Ah, she ain't the net-wieldin' kind," says I soothin'. "She'll tell you
all about her dear departed and the memorial window. About as gay as
Trinity Church on Ash Wednesday, she is. Come along."

Can you blame him, then, for glancin' reproachful at me when he sees
what answers our call at the Lady Louise a few minutes later? I lets go
of a few gasps myself; while J. Bayard--well, he just stares at her with
his mouth open.

For, take it from me, Mrs. Hollister had connected! Uh-huh! Not with any
last fall outfit, nor yesterday's. About day after to-morrow's, I should
call it. And if there wa'n't zipp and scream to it, then I'm
shortsighted in the eyes. My guess is that it's a mixture of the last
word in Byzantine effects, with a Cleopatra girdle and a Martha
Washington polonaise. Anyway, if there ain't much above the waist line
but gauze and strips of fur, there's plenty of flare below, as far as
the ankles. Lucky she'd invested in a generous fur-lined wrap to go with
it, or I wouldn't have stirred a step until we'd draped her in a rug or
something. I ain't sayin' much about the feather affair clamped around
her head in place of a hat; only it reminds me of an Indian war bonnet
that's been through a hard blow.

"Well, Bayard," says she, floatin' up to us wabbly on her high heels,
"you see I'm ready."

"Ye-e-es," says Steele draggy. And while I pushes the Major to the front
almost by main strength, J. Bayard presents him.

After that, though--say, I don't know when I've seen two parties indulge
in such a long and earnest look at each other as Major Ben and Mrs.
Hollister did then. While the Major flushes rosy and hardly has a word
to say for himself, he just naturally glues his lamps to her and don't
let 'em roam. Believe me too, she was some giddy picture! Wa'n't such a
bad looker, you know, in her other rig; but in this zippy regalia--well,
I got to admit that