"Drop in some Sunday about five," Medora Phillips had said to him, "and
have tea. The girls will be glad to meet you."
"The girls"? Who were they, and how many? He supposed he could account for
one of them, at least; but the others?
"You find me alone, after all," was her greeting. "The girls are out
walking--with each other, or their beaux, or whatever. Come in here."
She led him into a spacious room cluttered with lambrequins, stringy
portieres, grilles, scroll-work, bric-a-brac....
"The fine weather has been too much for them," she proceeded. "I was
relying on them to entertain you."
"Dear me! Am I to be entertained?"
"Of course you are." Her expression and inflection indicated to him that he
had been caught up in the cogs of a sizable machine, and that he was to be
put through it. Everybody who came was entertained--or helped entertain
others. Entertainment, in fact, was the one object of the establishment.
"Well, can't you entertain me yourself?"
"Perhaps I can." And it almost seemed as if he had been secured and
isolated for the express purpose of undergoing a particular course of
treatment.
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