It was also, I knew from Mildred’s tutelage, hopelessly passé.

I felt very chic in comparison and secretly superior, until she swept past me on her way toward the doorman. Direct, verdigris eyes met mine. I’ll deal with you later, young lady, she seemed to tell me with a glance. And though she said not a word, I felt like a third grader caught in the cloakroom showing her pantaloons to the boys.

“Mrs. Cutler?” I heard someone call from within the hotel. “Lillie! Is that you?”

A blond man, about thirty years old, wove through the main party of Europeans on the staircase and came toward me smiling broadly, blue eyes wide with astonishment. He was wearing a cheap brown suit, not flowing white robes, but I recognized him immediately from the many photographs in Mr. Lowell Thomas’s presentation. Colonel Lawrence in person was compact and more strongly built than I had imagined, and moved with the taut, athletic grace of a tightrope walker. As he approached, I was surprised to find that he barely exceeded my own quite modest height. Five foot four, perhaps? A bit more, if he would stand up straighter.

His pace slowed and his smile faded when I took off my dark glasses and he realized he was mistaken about my identity. Yes, that flat-voweled Ohio accent is familiar, his embarrassed little laugh seemed to say, but you are definitely not the lovely Lillian Cutler.

Hoping Rosie would mind her manners, I set her on the ground— bending carefully at the knees this time. “You must be Colonel Lawrence,” I said. “I’m Agnes Shanklin, Lillian Cutler’s sister.”

“How extraordinary,” he murmured after a brief handshake that seemed as reluctant as his words were warm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Shanklin. Lillie and Douglas told me so much about you.” And then, once more, he giggled.