The Long Way by Mary Imlay Taylor

Pamela's little five o'clock tea-table always stood in the south bow-window, situated at an angle that commanded Dupont Circle and the wide stretch of Massachusetts Avenue, where, at that hour, the long rows of electric lights showed like stars through the dusk of an early December evening.

Here and there the red eyes of an approaching motor emerged from the distance, or an equipage, gorgeous with ambassadorial liveries, dashed past. It was a bird's-eye glimpse, the external aspect of the absorbing gayety of the gay capital city. Pamela's little drawing-room, with its rich-toned mahogany, its ancient Turkey rugs, its one or two heavily framed portraits of old Van Citterses of Knickerbocker fame, was like a quiet haven where one could look out upon the passing show. The samovar and the more antique Delft teapot had belonged to Paul's grandmother, while the delicate shell-like cups ornamented with little Dutch windmills were objects of envy to her feminine friends.