"Not always. They have charades, spelling matches, pick a word out of a hat and make impromptu speeches——"
"But Mon dieu!" She stopped short and pushed back her scarf. Whatever expression she may have wished to conceal there was nothing now in her face but dismay. "But you did not tell me this or I should not have accepted. I never bore myself. I understood these were your intellectuals. Charades! Spelling matches! Words in the hat! It sounds like a small town moved to New York."
"Well, a good many of them are from small towns and they rather pride themselves on preserving some of the simplicities of rural life and juvenescence, while leading an exaggerated mental life for which nature designed no man. Perhaps it is merely owing to an obscure warning to preserve the balance. Or an innocent arrogance akin to Mrs. Oglethorpe's when she is looking her dowdiest.… But Gora often has good music … still, if you don't want to go on I'm sure I do not."
"No," she said hurriedly. "I shall go. But—I am still astonished. I do not know what I expected. But brilliant conversation, probably, such as one hears in a European salon. Don't they relax their great minds at outdoor sports? I understand there are golf links and tennis courts near the city."
"A good many of them do. But they like to relax still further at night. You see we are not Europeans. Americans are as serious as children, but like children they also love to play. Remember, we are a young nation—and a very healthy one. And you will have conversation if you want it. The men, you may be sure, will be ready to give you anything you demand."
"I had rather hoped to listen. Is this the house?"
Several taxis were arriving and there were many cars parked along the block. When they entered the house they were directed to dressing-rooms on the second floor, and Clavering met Madame Zattiany at the head of the staircase. She wore a gown of emerald green velvet, cut to reveal the sloping line of her shoulders, and an emerald comb thrust sideways in the low coil of her soft ashen hair. On the dazzling fairness of her neck lay a single unset emerald depending from a fine gold chain. Clavering stared at her helplessly.… It was evident she had not made her toilette with an eye to softening a blow!
"Am I overdressed?" she murmured. "I did not know.… I thought I would dress as if—well, as if I had been invited by one of my own friends——"
"Quite right. To 'dress down' would have been fatal. And Gora must spend a small fortune on her clothes.… But you … you … I have never seen you——"
"I am fond of green," she said lightly. "Couleur d'espérance. Shall we go down?"