"No, they would convert it into a sickroom."
"I could lend you my 'Hepatica' painting."
"No, thank you. I doubt whether it would refresh me."
"Clem Brush is a very good artist. Mrs. Stonington bought one."
"I don't doubt it. She has an absolutely first-class collection of third-class art."
"I don't mind going now that I can see you are getting back to normal."
He cleared his throat and said with a spark of his old sauciness, "As this will be your first crossing you had better take a physic the night before sailing."
Two weeks later Lucy stood on the deck chattering to Beman as the ship eased from its slip into the noses of panting tugs.
"I feel as though I'm leaving New York forever the way we all cried, Mother, Vida and I. It was nice of the kids from the show to come, wasn't it? I wished I could take them all along. Figente sent two dozen white orchids!"
"It's almost time for dinner. We are at the Captain's table," Beman said, his thought on the Beluga caviar that were the bowels of a huge carved ice swan glimpsed on the hors d'oeuvres table."
Lucy clutched at her billowing cloud-blue coat. "I feel as though I'm in France already. My steward looks like an apache dancer. I think I'll go to my cabin. I want to practice my French on him."
Chapter 40
LAST THE BEST
From her window in the Ritz maroon snub-nosed taxis jerked, tooting, an erratic merry-go-round a column wound like a Maypole with sculptured ribbon to its top where a small figure gazed over the aged squat circle sagging into its foundations and clareted in the dying sun. By the Mode-familiar names in gold along lacy iron balconies—jewelers, perfumers, furriers, couturiers and, opposite from home, Morgan et Cie.—she knew it was not an
