Kitty Conover ate in the kitchen. First off, this statement is likely
to create the false impression that there was an ordinary grain here,
a wedge of base hemlock in the citron. Not so. She ate in the kitchen
because she could not yet face that vacant chair in the dining room
without choking and losing her appetite. She could not look at the chair
without visualizing that glorious, whimsical, fascinating mother of
hers, who could turn grumpy janitors into comedians and send importunate
bill collectors away with nothing but spangles in their heads.

So long as she stayed out of the dining room she could accept her
loneliness with sound philosophy. She knew, as all sensible people know,
that there were ghosts, that memory had haunted galleries, and that
empty chairs were evocations.

Her days were so busily active, there were so many first nights and
concerts, that she did not mind such evenings as she had to spend alone
in the apartment. Persons were in and out of the office all through
the day, and many of them entertaining. For only real persons ever
penetrated that well-guarded cubby-hole off the noisy city room. Many
of them were old friends of her mother. Of course they were a little
pompous, but this was less innate than acquired; and she knew that below
they were worth while. She had come to the conclusion that successful
actors and actresses were the only people in America who spoke English
fluently and correctly.