She hit the horn twice, for Bretta, her personal maid, to come and get several packages from I. Magnin’s that were lying on the leather seat beside her, and then left the car and wearily entered the house. In the vestibule, she removed the silk scarf that had protected her blond hair, dropped it on the French Directoire bench, squirmed out of her full-length leopard coat, and half carried it, half dragged it into the spacious, expensive living room, where she threw it across the arm of the closest chair. Listlessly, she peeled through the mail on the mantelpiece, then wandered to the magazines on the coffee table, and poked at the new Harper’s Bazaar with disinterest. And finally, she moved to the sofa, collapsing on the downy cushions, impatiently waiting for Averil, the butler, to appear. In half a minute, Averil appeared with the customary double Martini dry on the small lacquered tray. “Good afternoon, ma’am. No calls.” “Thanks, Averil.” She accepted the drink. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
