thousand additional for a hat to match! Mrs. Landis thought nothing
of paying thirty-five dollars for a lace handkerchief, or sixty
dollars for a pair of spun silk hose, or two hundred dollars for a
pearl and gold-handled parasol trimmed with cascades of chiffon, and
made, like her hats, one for each gown.

"And she insists that these things are worth the money," said Alice.
"She says it's not only the material in them, but the ideas. Each
costume is a study, like a picture. 'I pay for the creative genius
of the artist,' she said to me--'for his ability to catch my ideas
and apply them to my personality--my complexion and hair and eyes.
Sometimes I design my own costumes, and so I know what hard work it
is!'"

Mrs. Landis came from one of New York's oldest families, and she was
wealthy in her own right; she had a palace on Fifth Avenue, and now
that she had turned her husband out, she had nothing at all to put
in it except her clothes. Alice told about the places in which she
kept them--it was like a museum! There was a gown-room, made
dust-proof, of polished hardwood, and with tier upon tier of long
poles running across, and padded skirt-supporters hanging from them.
Everywhere there was order and system--each skirt was numbered, and
in a chiffonier-drawer of the same number you would find the
waist--and so on with hats and stockings and gloves and shoes and
parasols. There was a row of closets, having shelves piled up with
dainty lace-trimmed and beribboned lingerie; there were two closets
full of hats and three of shoes. "When she went West," said Alice,
"one of her maids counted, and found that she had over four hundred
pairs! And she actually has a cabinet with a card-catalogue to keep
track of them. And all the shelves are lined with perfumed silk