Meditating upon the
matter, I found myself staring at Mrs. Judson as she polished some
glassware in the pantry. As always, the worthy woman made a pleasing
picture in her neat print gown. From staring at her rather absently I
caught myself reflecting that she was one of the few women whose hair
is always perfectly coiffed. I mean to say, no matter what the press
of her occupation, it never goes here and there.
From the hair, my meditative eye, still rather absently, I believe,
descended her quite good figure to her boots. Thereupon, my gaze
ceased to be absent. They were not boots. They were bronzed slippers
with high heels and metal buckles and of a character so distinctive
that I instantly knew they had once before been impressed upon my
vision. Swiftly my mind identified them: they had been worn by the
Klondike woman on the occasion of a dinner at the Grill, in
conjunction with a gown to match and a bluish scarf--all combining to
achieve an immense effect.
My assistant hummed at her task, unconscious of my scrutiny. I recall
that I coughed slightly before disclosing to her that my attention had
been attracted to her slippers. She took the reference lightly,
affecting, as the sex will, to belittle any prized possession in the
face of masculine praise.
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