HEART OF THE CITY
THE dining-room was green, as green could be. Under the or- ange-colored candle-light, the walls, rugs, ceiling, draperies, ferns, glowed verdant, mysterious, intense, like night woods arch- ing round a camp fire. Into this fervid, pastoral verdure the round white table, sparkling with silver, limpid with wine-lights, seemed to roll forth re splendent and incongruous as a huge, tinseled snow ball.
Outside, like fire engines running on velvet wheels, the automobiles went humming along the pavement. Inside, the soft, narrow, ribbony voice of a violin came whimpering through the rose- scented air.
It was the midst of dinner-party time. In the oak-paneled hallway a shadowy, tall clock swallowed gutturally on the verge of striking nine.
The moment was distinctly nervous. The entrée course was late, and the Hostess, gesticulating
tragically to her husband, had slipped one chalky
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