On it lay a gold-mounted
fountain-pen, huge and stub-pointed; a medley of papers and torn
envelopes, a bottle of Creme Yvette, and a silver-framed portrait
of a lean smiling man with a single eye-glass.
Mr. Wrenn did not really see all these details, but he had an
impression of luxury and high artistic success. He considered
the Yvette flask the largest bottle of perfume he'd ever seen;
and remarked that there was "some guy's picture on the table."
He had but a moment to reconnoiter, for she was astonishingly saying:
"So you were lonely when I knocked?"
"Why, how--"
"Oh, I could see it. We all get lonely, don't we? I do, of
course. Just now I'm getting sorer and sorer on Interesting
People. I think I'll go back to Paris. There even the
Interesting People are--why, they're interesting. Savvy--you
see I _am_ an American--savvy?"
"Why--uh--uh--uh--I d-don't exactly get what you mean. How do
you mean about `Interesting People'?"
"My dear child, of course you don't get me." She went to the
mirror and patted her hair, then curled on the bed, with an
offhand "Won't you sit down?" and smoked elaborately, blowing
the blue tendrils toward the ceiling as she continued: "Of
course you don't get it.
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