"And this is your Valhalla?" she sniffed. "A kingdom of charlatans, and tinsel and clap-trap, of fricassees and onions, and greasy mendicants. Ugh! You're rather overdoing the simple life, Monsieur er—Philidor. You're very ragged and—ah—a trifle soiled."
"Outwardly only, chère Olga," he laughed. "Inwardly my soul is lily-white."
"I'm not so sure of that. No one's soul can be lily-white whose beard is two weeks old. Also, mon ami, you look half famished."
"My soul—" he began.
"Your stomach!" she broke in. "Come with me. At least I'm going to see you properly fed."
"You're awfully kind, but—"
"You refuse?"
"I must—besides, you could hardly expect me to appear at your house party in these."
She turned on her heel and walked away from him.
"I hardly expect you ever to do anything that I want you to do."