posters, and occasional scrapings from 24-sheets of Theda Bara and other highly indigestible stars, and she was beginning to feel the need of simpler food less exciting to a person of her spontaneous temperament. Still, she was happy enough, except for the nail on the floor of the box very near where she was most fond of sitting down, and a knot hole which had established a direct communication between a February breeze and her left ear. As she did not entertain much company she could keep her feet usually in the dining room.
She had named her new abode “The Pines.”
This rustic tranquillity was bifurcated, one tremendous afternoon, by the arrival of a pair of pompous pink pantaloons containing one “Mr. Frimp,” a small, smiling object surmounted by a shock of longish black hair such as is often found on Chinese, and the tails of Percheron stallions.
“Surely,” said Mr. Frimp, holding Angie off with one hand, “there is not another woman in the world with a face like that. Even one is improbable. Two were quite
