Parlor of Irritation 

Pamela was sitting in the Parlor of Irritation, practicing her coquetry. Gwen was watching from behind the arras. Look at the wildebeest, Gwen thought. How many times can a person cross her legs? Gwen herself, in her deepest person, was also cross: she was not behaving to the standard she had recently decided she must achieve in order to be worthy of having Bradford beseech her to release her aura to him. She felt, however, that she had to soldier on in her effort to learn the secrets of Pamela’s … She could not bring herself to say anything that might reflect well upon Pamela unless she said it to Pamela’s face and she was not faced with the prospect of facing Pamela’s face at this moment. Gwen scratched her head violently. Something was itching there. It was perhaps her thought processes. And there was the bildungsroman of a sneeze hovering just inside her chamber of mucus and it wanted out. Do they never send this arras out for cleaning? Gwen wondered. In my next epistle to Ma-Ma, I shall make especial mention of it. Ma-Ma will know who to contact in the administration.

Pamela did something with her hand. Her hand moved up toward her face, hovered there a moment then collapsed into her other hand that was resting in her lap. But while it was hovering it did something. Something cunning and despicable. The young man sitting on the other side of the parlor, who had been ferociously engaged with his morning Times, suddenly rose and crossed to Pamela, bowed and placed his card next to Pamela’s butter knife. Gwen felt the sneeze growing into its young manhood. Soon it would announce its maturity and explode upon the world scene. She leaned her face into the arras; she pinched her nose with its rough texture. Pamela said nothing. Gwen pinched harder.  The young man bowed and exited the Parlor of Irritation. Somewhere a bell. Dang, Gwen thought. The genius of names.