Within a week after the rooms had been reserved the invalid drove up to
the Legation to thank the Secretary for his kindness. Now, the Secretary
had lived in modern capitals for many years, was trained in diplomacy,
and had schooled himself never to appear surprised. But the Princess
Kalora fairly bowled him over. He had pictured her as a wan and waxen
creature, who would be carried to the hotel in a closed carriage or
ambulance, there to recline by the windowside and look out at the
rustling leaves. He had decided, after hours of deliberation, that the
etiquette of the situation would be for some member of the Legation to
call upon her about once a week and take flowers to her.
And here was the invalid, bounding out of a coupe, tripping up the front
steps and bursting in upon him like an untamed Amazon from the prairies
of Nebraska. She wore a tailor-made suit of dark material, a sailor hat,
tan gloves with big welts on the back and stout, low-heeled Oxfords.
This was the young woman who had come five thousand miles to improve
her health! This was the child of the Orient, and in the Orient, woman
is a hothouse flower. This was the timid young recluse to whom the
soft-spoken diplomats were to carry a few roses about once a week.
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