Mrs. Parkington [antikvár]

OUTSIDE THE SNOW WAS FALLING, THICKLY IN GREAT WET flakes, so that the sound of the traffic on Park Avenue coming through the drawn curtains was muted and distant Mrs. Parkington, seated before her mirror with a half-pint of champagne by her side, thought how nice it was to have a Christmas this year which seemed like Christmas. True, tomorrow the snow would be turnéd to slush, discolored by soot, and those great machines bought by the personable and bumptious mayor would be scooping it up and hauling it off tö the North River; but snow-the mere idea of snow-was pleasant. Just the sight of it drifting down in soft white flakes through the bright auras of the Street lights made you feel happy and content. And it summoned memories, very long memories, of the days when snow was not a nuisance in New York but brought out sleds and sleighs and there was racing in the park, and the sound of sleigh bells was heard everywhere in the city. Gus had loved the cutter racing; it suited his flamboyant nature. When one was eighty-four and in good health and spirits and had a half-pint of Lanson every evening just before dinner, one had a long memory. Long memories were perhaps common among widowed old ladies but memories so crammed with románcé and excitement as that of Mrs. Parkington were rare. She was doing her own hair, setting the waves exactly as they should be. She had always done her own hair and now at eighty-four she had no intention of giving it up. Ten years ago she had had it cut, not so much as a concession to fashion, as because it was simpler to do and less trouble to keep in order. She could not abide untidy women. Hair hanging down