At five o'clock the sombre egg-shaped room at the Ritz ripens¹ to a subtle melody—the light clat-clat of one lump, two lumps, into the cup, and the ding of the shining teapots and cream-pots as they kiss elegantly in transit² upon a silver tray. There are those who cherish that amber³ hour above all other hours, for now the pale, pleasant toil⁴ of the lilies who inhabit the Ritz is over—the singing decorative⁵ part of the day remains⁶.

 

Moving your eyes around the slightly raised horseshoe balcony you might, one spring afternoon, have seen young Mrs. Alphonse Karr and young Mrs. Charles Hemple at a table for two. The one in the dress was Mrs. Hemple—when I say "the dress" I refer to that black immaculate affair with the big buttons and the red ghost of a cape⁷ at the shoulders, a gown suggesting with faint and fashionable irreverence⁸ the garb⁹ of a French cardinal¹⁰, as it was meant to do when it was invented in the Rue¹¹ de la Paix. Mrs. Karr and Mrs. Hemple were twenty-three years old, and their enemies said that they had done very well for themselves. Either might have had her limousine¹² waiting at the hotel door, but both of them much preferred to walk home (up Park Avenue) through the April

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