If the management of the Hotel Guelph, that London landmark, could have been present at three o'clock one afternoon in early January in the sitting room of the suite which they had assigned to Mrs. Elmer Ford, late of New York, they might well have felt a little aggrieved. Philosophers among them would possibly have meditated on the limitations of human effort; for they had done their best for Mrs. Ford. They had housed her well. They had fed her well. They had caused inspired servants to anticipate her every need. Yet here she was, in the midst of all these aids to a contented mind, exhibiting a restlessness and impatience of her surroundings that would have been noticeable in a caged tigress or a prisoner of the Bastille. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.