She took me to her bungalow dressing-room, where a beaming waiter who looked like von Stroheim2 served us a colossal meal. Camilla studied me thoughtfully. What was I thinking of her? Her fair candid brows knitted. She spoke with genuine regret upon the end of a sigh.
"Everybody t'ink of me that I am -- dumb! You, too? Is because I do not mix so well. I go to some party, I sit in some quiet corner, I do not make the handspring or dance the jazzy bottom. So then they say: 'Ach! She is
"I suppose," said I, "that like most of the foreign stars who come here, you are a countess or of some high nobility in your country."
"Oh, no. Oh, no. Very simple people. Nice. Not so rich. When my father die, then I go to work. I have little brother and mother to feed . . . What did I do?" She lowered her voice confidentially. There was a warm, friendly look in her now brown eyes. "I will tell you what I do. I make pajamas. I design them. I sew on them. I go out to store and I sell them."
There was genuine pride in her voice, and she explained moreover that she made good pajamas. "Very pretty and nice to look at and feel."