admitted to be arrestingly beautiful. The late afternoon sun seemed to have saved its last full radiance to provide the proper setting for her as she lounged gracefully behind the trim, black-uniformed chauffeur and looked out through the lowered window with lively, dark eyes.
Had you remarked to her about the sun's seeming benevolence, she would doubtless have dismissed it with a charming and very Latin shrug of her slim shoulders as little more than her due. Carmelita de Cordoba was used to kindness and to service and to the world in general going to a great deal of trouble for her. In her native Argentine very rich and very attractive young women are assured of a slavelike devotion from everybody except their older relatives. Should the only daughter of one of the richest and most distinguished Spanish families in South America expect less when she journeys abroad with unlimited resources to Paris, the haven of gowns, to select her wedding trousseau?
Carmelita de Cordoba had spent a month in Paris now upon this delightful mission, dipping into the expensive treasures of the famous shops—Poiret, Paquin, Cartier, Coty—spending the delightful spring days amid fawning, thin-waisted men modistes and fawning thick-waisted lady ones, with an occasional
