It is not only the splendid line drawings of Indian chiefs, forming the panels of the room--those mysterious and impressive shades created by the imagination of Lew Parrish--it is the general mood.

Only candles are burning,--big, fat candles, giving, in the aggregate, a magical radiance.
The victrola at the end of the room begins to play a curious Indian air with an uneven, fascinating, syncopated rhythm.

A graceful girl in Indian dress glides in and places a single candle on the floor, squatting before it in a circle of dim, yellow light.
She lifts her dark head with its heavy band about the brows and shades her eyes with her hand.

You see remote places, far, pale horizons, desert regions of sand.

There are empty skies overhead, instead of the "live-colour" ceiling.