CHAPTER XII


Kitty Conover ate in the kitchen. First off, this statement is
likely to create the false impression that there was an ordinary
grain here, a wedge of base hemlock in the citron. Not so. She
ate in the kitchen because she could not yet face that vacant chair
in the dining room without choking and losing her appetite. She
could not look at the chair without visualizing that glorious,
whimsical, fascinating mother of hers, who could turn grumpy janitors
into comedians and send importunate bill collectors away with nothing
but spangles in their heads.

So long as she stayed out of the dining room she could accept her
loneliness with sound philosophy. She knew, as all sensible people
know, that there were ghosts, that memory had haunted galleries, and
that empty chairs were evocations.

Her days were so busily active, there were so many first nights and
concerts, that she did not mind such evenings as she had to spend
alone in the apartment. Persons were in and out of the office all
through the day, and many of them entertaining. For only real
persons ever penetrated that well-guarded cubby-hole off the noisy
city room. Many of them were old friends of her mother. Of course
they were a little pompous, but this was less innate than acquired;
and she knew that below they were worth while. She had come to the
conclusion that successful actors and actresses were the only people
in America who spoke English fluently and correctly.

Yes, she ate in the kitchen; but she would have been a fit subject