"It's only a sleeping draught.

Her regular chemist makes it up all right." "That may be," the man behind the counter replied, "but, you see, I am not her regular chemist.

You had better go and tell her so." The footman departed upon his errand without a glance at the girl who was sitting within a few feet of him.
"I am very sorry, madam," he announced to his mistress, "that the chemist declines to make up the prescription unless you sign the book." "Very well, then, I will come," she declared.
The woman, handed from the automobile by her servant, lifted her white satin skirts in both hands and stepped lightly across the pavement.
Tavernake stood on one side to let her pass.

She seemed to him to be, indeed, a creature of that other world of which he knew nothing.

Her slow, graceful movements, the shimmer of her skirt, her silk stockings, the flashing of the diamond buckles upon her shoes, the faint perfume from her clothes, the soft touch of her ermine as she swept by--all these things were indeed strange to him.