"And flops over, and dies?" asked Andrew. "It seems to me that's the unpleasant part about fly-paper."
"I'm not sure of that," said Radwalader. "I'd have to have the fly's word for it. All of us must die in one manner or another, and perhaps being suffocated by a surfeit of sugar and molasses is not the most disagreeable way. However, you are only going to browse along the edges."
"There are some stunning women here," said Andrew.
"That's singularly à propos," replied Radwalader. "Are there any in particular whom you'd like to meet? I know about all of them."
"Oh, do you?" said Andrew. "I hadn't noticed you bow."
For a fraction of a second Radwalader glanced at his companion's face. Then—
"Hadn't you?" he said, with a short laugh. "I'm afraid your eyes have been too busy with the women themselves to take note of my salutations."
The next moment he doffed his hat ceremoniously to a little black-eyed creature with a superb triple string of pearls hanging almost to the waist of her black lace gown.
"That's Suzanne Derval," he explained, as they passed. "She's one of the brightest women in Paris."