But I catch the imperfection in their schooling. It is very amusing to watch them strut about until their display is made, and then, their stunt done, slouch back into the dressing-rooms sans carriage and manner.
And then, too, I am discovered. This also causes a break in the spell of their queenly stroll. They are laughing and at the same time trying to maintain the dignity due to the gowns they are wearing. They become self-conscious and the effect is ludicrous.
I am demoralising the institution, so we get away. I would like to talk to some of the models, but it can't be done very well.
From there we go to a candy store, where I lay in a supply of chocolates and preserved fruits for my trip into Germany the next day. I am invited by Sir Philip to visit him at his country home in Lympne, Kent, on my return from Germany.
That evening I go with a party of Dudley Field Malone's to the Palais Royale in the Montmartre district. This is a novelty. Different. Seems several steps ahead of America. And it has atmosphere, something entirely its own, that you feel so much more than you do the tangible things about you.
There is a woman wearing a monocle. A simple touch, but how it changes! The fashions here proclaim themselves even without comparison and expert opinion.
The music is simple, exotic, neurotic. Its simplicity demands attention. It reaches inside you instead of affecting your feet.
They are dancing a tango. It is entertainment just to watch them. The pauses in the music, its dreamy cadences, its insinuation, its suggestiveness, its whining, almost monotonous swing. It is tropical yet, this Paris. And I realise that Paris is at a high pitch. Paris has not yet had relief from the cloddy numbness brought on with the War. I wonder will relief come easily or will there be a conflagration.
I meet Doughie, the correspondent. We recall our first meeting in the kitchen of Christine's in Greenwich Village.
It is soon noised about that I am here and our table takes on the atmosphere of a reception. What a medley!