ended in a circle at the center of the room where Madame herself stood. She advanced toward Ken.
"Monsieur Gracey, I believe."
Ken, fortified by several brandies, was amused. "Charmed to meet you," he said, bowing low. "I want to see something ducky—a sailor suit—or maybe I'll go as Little Bo-Peep."
Contempt was written in the black eyes of Madame. Ken's spirit of mischievous raillery died.
"I am not a costumer," she said. "You are privileged to have me attend you. I do so only because of your patron."
Considerably subdued, Ken followed Madame into a room of dazzling canary brocaded satin walls, where a yellow and black Macaw sat on a bar high in a corner, staring resentfully at the intruder.
"I shall show you some newer models that may suit your figure and complexion," Madame said.
"What's the idea?" Ken asked.
"Didn't he tell you?"
"Who is he?"
"Oh, so you are a visitor here, eh?"
"In show business."
"Dancer?"
"Yes."
"I am not permitted to mention the name of your friend. If you were a Bostonian you would understand that we do not invite trouble by mentioning names." She produced a cigar case from a pocket of her waistcoat and proceeded to light it before she continued: "He is giving a party Saturday night at the mansion. I presume there will be a style display."
"So I'm to go in 'drag'?"
