"Don't say the motor is waiting!"
"No, it isn't."
"Shall we go to some preposterous place—to the Monico?"
"Where you like. It's just tea time, or coffee time."
They walked to the Monico in the March wind, and went in with a group of Italians, passing the woman who sells foreign papers, and seeing names that transported them to Paris, to Milan, to Rome, to Berlin. A vastness of marble contained a myriad of swarthy strangers, releasing souls astoundingly foreign in vivid gesture and talk. They had coffee with cream like a burgeoning cloud floating airily on the top.
"The only word to describe the effect of all this upon me is spree," said Mrs. Mansfield. "I am out on the spree."
"Capital! And if I stepped right in to your sort of life," said Heath, "would it have the same kind of effect upon me?"
"I don't think it could. It's too conscious, too critical, too fastidious. There's nothing fastidious in a spree. I like the March wind outside, too—the thought of it."
Suddenly her mind went to Charmian and Algiers.
"Charmian's in the sun," she said.