She was leaning forward, so that the trim lines of her straight green coat were for the moment off their guard. The coat, for all its trimness, had a neglige appearance. The little black hat swept over the cheek in a circle that left a glimpse of nose and ear. One white-gloved hand rested on her breast; the other, from which hung a silver bag, was caressing Floss's absurd, microscopic dog, a griffon belge named Miette,—Mi for short. Mi, crowded back into a corner of a throne-like chair, was sturdily resisting Olga's advances; was even uttering vainglorious threats through her fierce little whiskers.
Before Olga had noticed his entrance the princess appeared on the staircase, manicured, massaged, and pinched into a radiant glow.
"Well here we all are," she called out, coming rather carefully down the stairs, "drunk, dressed, and highly perfumed. How do I look, honey?"
"Grand!" said Grover.
"About ten years younger, don't I?" she asked.
"Than what?"
"Than what my passport says I am."
"It lies," Grover reassured her.
Floss rumpled his hair gratefully, and gave Olga a kiss.
Olga had greeted him as coolly as when she had entered the house yesterday, and he had an instant of disappointment. After all, there was nothing so unusual about her! Then, in reply to some compliment
