for a moment at her mother's ruffled pink shoulders; then, with a
sigh, she turned to the reception-room of their small suite at the
Hotel Gontram. It was a somber chamber furnished in red plush, with
a complication of shades and gray-white net curtains at long windows
and a deep green carpet. There was a fireplace, with a grate,
supported by varnished oak pillars and elaborate mantel and glass, a
glittering reddish center-table with a great many small odd shelves
below, a desk with sheaves of hotel writing paper and the telephone.

The Gontram was entirely different from the hotels at the lakes or
seashore or in the South. It was a solid part of a short block west
of Fifth Avenue in the middle of the city. Sherry's filled a corner
with its massive stone bulk and glimpses of dining-rooms with
glittering chandeliers and solemn gaiety, then impressive clubs and
wide entrances under heavy glass and metal, tall porters in splendid
livery, succeeded each other to the Hotel Gontram and the dull
thunder of the elevated trains beyond.

The revolving door, through which Linda sedately permitted herself
to be moved, opened into a high space of numerous columns and
benches, writing-desks and palms. At the back was the white room
where, usually alone, she had breakfast, while the dining-room,
discreetly lighted, was at the left. It was more interesting here
than, for example, at the Boscombe; people were always coming in or
going, and there were quantities of men. She watched them arriving
with shoals of leather bags in the brisk care of the bellboys,
disappear into the elevator, and, if it was evening, come down in
dinner coats with vivid silk scarfs folded over their white shirts.

The women were perpetually in street clothes or muffled in satin