You know, she _has_
friends in New York, and seems to know just what she wants to do, so I
couldn't thrust myself upon her. But I think I did the right thing."
"I'm sure of that, you dear girl," said Peter.
And so was the dear girl herself.
Next morning the room of the mirrors was destitute of dryads. Its once
crowded wardrobes were empty; the huge screen was folded and leaning
against the wall. The dryad door stood open (as Peter Rolls observed
when he "happened" to pass, about the time the _Monarchic_ neared the
Statue of Liberty) and nothing reminiscent remained save a haunting
perfume of "Rose-Nadine" sachet powder, a specialty which might have
been the lingering wraith of a dryad.
As the visions had vanished with all their belongings, Peter thought
it probable they would be on some deck or other watching for the New
York skyscrapers. And he was right concerning four of his model
acquaintances. The fifth was not visible, and Miss Devereux explained
her absence by saying that she was "lazy."
"She's on her own now, you know," she added, "and can sleep as late as
she likes. But I wouldn't miss the first sight of New York for a
pound! Some people have no romance in them.
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