Kitty Conover had inherited brains and beauty, and nothing else but the furniture.

Her father had been a famous reporter, the admiration of cubs from New York to San Francisco; handsome, happy-go-lucky, generous, rather improvident, and wholly lovable.

Her mother had been a comedy actress noted for her beauty and wit and extravagance.

Thus it will be seen that Kitty was in luck to inherit any furniture at all.
Kitty was twenty-four.

A body is as old as it is, but a brain is as old as the facts it absorbs; and Kitty had absorbed enough facts to carry her brain well into the thirties.
Conover had been dead twenty years; and Kitty had scarcely any recollections of him.