indulgence with such unexampled harshness that any sympathy between us has been out of the question ever since — and of Charlotte Russe, which, from its striking resemblance to a shaving-mug in full blast, has never seemed to me inviting — and of something called Sally Lunn, upon which I did not care to venture, because I could not in the least remember what manner of thing it was. Then and there I came to a full halt, and, by way of finale to the first dinner on my schedule, feebly wrote “Assorted Fruit.” I may add at once that I never succeeded in getting beyond the second day’s luncheon, and that Galvin, duly reassured as to my appreciation, continued to do the ordering, after all. The sole virtue of the episode was in showing me that she had another side in addition to the vanishing and the melodious. I was yet in blissful ignorance of the remaining five which cropped up later to complete my human octagon. In justice to myself, however, I am bound to
