I looked at her scrutinizingly. No, she was not the least tired; she was as fresh as if that moment risen from a long sleep in the air of seashore or mountains.
She went on: “I’m going over to Paris to-morrow. I’ve a lot of engagements there. And I must get some clothes. I’ve worn out all I brought with me.”
“Worn out” meant worn once or at most twice; for in a society where everyone is seeing everyone else all the time a woman with a reputation for dress cannot afford to reappear in clothes once seen. In some circles this would sound delightfully prodigal, in others delightfully impossible, and perhaps in still others delightfully criminal. But then all that sort of thing is relative—like everything else in the world.
“Won’t you come along?” said she in a perfunctory tone.
“No, thanks,” I replied. “I’m off for Russia with a party of bankers to look at some mining properties.”
“I thought you were returning to New York?”
“Not for several months,” said I.
“How can you stay away so long from your beloved America?”
“Business—always business.”
She eyed me somewhat as one eyes a strange, mildly interesting specimen. “Well—you must enjoy it, or you wouldn’t keep at it year in and year out.”