Here is a story told me the other day by a drummer traveling for the Solvay Process Company. We were on the New York Central, riding from Syracuse to Albany ❦ The incident has a fromage flavor that makes it look like lallapaloosala persiflage. However, it may be true, for no one is in such danger of the Ananias Club as he who has the courage to give the plain, unvarnished facts ❦ I am unable to recall his exact words, and so I use my own language. ¶ So say we, tell we the tale: My friend, the drummer, took the Owl, a midnight train from Chicago to Des Moines ❦ The section just across from his berth was occupied by a Vision in Gray. ¶ The chromatic ensemble was that known at Wanamaker’s as “elephant’s breath.” From the tip of her toe to the proudly defiant Henry of Navarre ostrich-plume, she was an ecstacy in silvery gray. The Chiaroscuro was as lissome, billowy, willowy, pearly, evasive and impressionistic as the fog that hangs low on the October corn, when the rising sun is a great, round, red ball on the rim of the dreamy and effete East ❦ From Land’s End to John O’Groat’s the symphony was satisfying and complete. Her hat was a milliner’s creation; her dress an architect’s dream, devised by Kirk Cutter in an artistic seizure; her hair was done up as provided by the Interstate Commerce Commission. Yet the woman was modest, refined, lady-like. Her high-sign only referred to the duds and haberdashery ❦ She was neither fly nor flip—merely bouffant, that’s all. She was as tall as the Solvay Process man, for he had observed it, being from Syracuse. ¶ The Pullman-car conductor came through and took up the tickets. The Vision in Gray had the whole section—she said so—she needed the upper berth for her clothes, and cautioned the porter that the space was hers. “Yassum! Comin’ up!” said George in reassuring tones that cost a quarter. He had no tissue envelope big enough for the hat, so it was covered with two copies of the Chicago _News_. ¶ The train started. Soon the curtains were drawn and the lights turned low; nothing was heard save the rumble and roar of the onward rush of the train, and the snores of an obese attorney, traveling for pleasure. Morning came. It often does. It came dim and foggy. Lights blinked, six o’clock whistles blew, calling workmen from their beds to toil ❦ The man from Syracuse was awakened by words of tumult and sounds of entreaty. The porter was swearing an alibi in a tearful Scipio Africanus voice: “Ah nevah saw dem close, Missus! Ah hope to die—Fo’ Gawd, I hope to die! I’se a Baptis’ an’ nevah done nothin’ bad in my life!” And from out the berth filled by the Vision came subdued feminine threats, which died away in half-sobs of anguish that shook the soul of the Solvay Process party, strong man though he was. ¶ The Pullman Conductor came. The train conductor was summoned ❦ The flagman who guards the rear end forgot his duties, as he stood in the aisle with