“Caterers,” submitted Mr. White, turning a page.

“I suppose so,” his wife agreed.  After a thoughtful silence she added, “Sue Adams says that she supposes that when a woman has as much money as that she loses all interest in spending it!  Personally, I don’t see how she can entertain a great big man like Von Praag in that old-fashioned house.  She never seems to think of it at all, she never apologizes for it, and she talks as if nobody ever bought new things until the old were worn out!”

Her eyes went about her own big bedroom as she spoke.  Nothing old-fashioned here!  Even eighteen years ago, when the Whites were married, their home had been furnished in a manner to make the Holly Hall of to-day look out of date.  Mrs. White shuddered now at the mere memory of what she as a bride had thought so beautiful:  the pale green carpet, the green satin curtains, the white-and-gold chairs and tables and bed, the easels, the gilded frames!  Seven or eight years later she had changed all this for a heavy brass bedstead, and dark rugs on a polished floor, and bird’s-eye maple chests and chairs, and all feminine Santa Paloma talked of the Whites’ new things.  Six or seven years after that again, two mahogany beds replaced the brass one, and heavy mahogany bureaus with glass knobs had their day, with plain net curtains and old-fashioned woven rugs.  But all these were in the guest-rooms now, and in her own bedroom Mrs. White had a complete set of Circassian walnut, heavily carved, and ornamented with cunningly inset panels of rattan.  On the beds were covers of Oriental cottons, and the window-curtains showed the same elementary designs in pinks and blues.

“She dresses very prettily, I thought,” observed Mr. White, apropos of his wife’s last remark.

“Dresses!” echoed his wife.  “She dresses as your mother might!”

“Very pretty, very pretty!” said the man absently, over his book.

There was a silence.  Then: 

“That just shows how much men notice,” Mrs. White confided to her ivory-backed brush.  “I believe they like women to look like frumps!”

CHAPTER VII

These were busy days in the once quiet and sleepy office of the Santa Paloma Morning Mail.  A wave of energy and vigor swept over the place, affecting everybody from the fat, spoiled office cat, who found himself pushed out of chairs, and bounced off of folded coats with small courtesy, to the new editor-manager and the lady whose timely investment had brought this pleasant change about.  Old Kelly, the proof-reader, night clerk, Associated Press manager, and assistant editor, shouted and swore with a vim unknown of late years; Miss Watson, who “covered” social events, clubs, public dinners, “dramatic,” and “hotels,” cleaned out her desk, and took her fancy-work home, and “Fergy,” a freckled youth who delighted in calling himself a “cub,” although he did little more than run errands and carry copy to the press-room, might even be seen batting madly at an unused typewriter when actual duties failed, so inspiring was the new atmosphere.