She lifted some filmy gowns which had arrived in the latest parcel to her chin, peering over the sheerness of the lacy cascade, into the mirror of the dressing-table.

“If good old Jack could see me now?  Poor, old, stupid, dear, silly Jack!  I must write to him at once, for he is largely responsible for my present unusual surroundings.  How pleased this would not make him, the old dear.”

With the thought, she sat down before the escritoire, dipping a pearl and gold pen, as she paused for the words with which to begin the note.  Another knock came at the door.  It could not be another gown.  She had told Holloway to keep all her personal baggage at the steamer dock until she had finished her lark!  At the portal a diminutive messenger delivered a large white box, ornately bound in lavender ribbons.  When she unwrapped it, hidden in the folds of many reams of delicate tissue, she found a gorgeous bunch of orchids.

“How beautiful!  I wonder who could have—­” then she found a white card, and read it aloud, with a mirthful peal of laughter.

“To Lollypop’s little Bonbon Tootems—­from her foolish old Da-Da!”

Helene turned toward the window, to gaze out over the mysterious, foreign motley array of roofs and obtruding skyscrapers of this curious district.

“This mysterious man plays his part with a sense of humor.  If only he will be different and not mean the flowers, ever!”

And she forgot to finish the note which was to have gone to faraway, stupid, dear old Jack.

Ten minutes later an aged gentleman entered the gorgeous foyer of the Hotel California, impatiently presenting his card to the bell-boy, for announcement to Miss Marigold.  The lad, true to tradition, quietly confided the name to the interested clerk, before doing so.  As the visitor was shown to the elevator, the clerk turned to his assistant with a nudge.

“There’s the easiest spender of the Lobster Club.  That means good trade here, with this new peach in the crate.  These old ginks are hard as Bessemer armor-plate in business, but oh, how soft the tumble for a new shade of peroxide.”

“Mr. Grimsby” was soon sitting on the velour divan, at a comfortable distance from possible eavesdroppers at the door.  She was putting the finishing touches to her preparation for the butterfly role.  Shirley felt an unexpected thrill at this little intimacy of their relations:  the rooms were permeated with the most delicate suggestion of a curious perfume, which was strange to him.  Somehow it fitted her personality so effectually:  for despite the physical appeal of her beauty, now accentuated by the risque costume which she had donned, at the professional suggestion of Dick Holloway, there was a pervasive spirituality in the girl’s face, her hands, and the tones of her soft voice.

She turned to smile at him, her dimples playing hide and seek with the white pearls beneath the unduly scarlet lip.