Wilhelmina tossed her hat to the top of the upright piano, combed her shingled hair before a mirror, and called her maid to order cocktails. Then leading Ambrose to her balcony over-looking the spreading lawn of the Ambassador, she invited him to be seated in a wicker arm-chair.
That's my door down there. He pointed.
Is it? she queried listlessly. Whatever are you thinking about? she asked, after a pause.
Unable to find an answer at once, he eventually brought out, I was thinking Hollywood isn't so bad, after all.
Bad! I should think not! You ought to try Kansas City for a while.
The maid came to them with two ruby glasses filled with cocktails and a shaker on a tray.
Ruth makes magnificent cocktails, Wilhelmina announced, swallowing half the contents of her glass. Now what has she put into this one, I wonder? I found a pickled walnut at the bottom of my glass last time, but it gave just the right touch. This one tastes as if it had celery in it.
Ambrose thought it did.
She poured out two more as she stared fixedly at her guest.
