A noisy orchestra played imbecile dance music, and a number of male and female imbeciles took advantage of it to exercise the only portions of their anatomy in which any trace of intellect had ever lodged.
Athalie, resting one dimpled elbow on the velvet cushioned rail, watched the dancers for a while, then her unamused and almost expressionless gaze swept the tables below with a leisurely absence of interest which might have been mistaken for insolence—and envied as such by a servile world which secretly adores it.
"Well, Lady Greensleeves?" he said, watching her.
"Some remarkable Poiret and Lucille gowns, Clive.... And a great deal of paint." She remained a moment in the same attitude—leisurely inspecting the throng below, then turned to him, her calm preoccupation changing to a shyly engaging smile.
"Are you still of the same mind concerning my personal attractiveness?"
"I have spoiled you!" he concluded, pretending chagrin.
"Is that spoiling me—to hear you say you approve of me?"
"Of course not, you dear girl! Nothing could ever spoil you."
She lifted her Clover Club, looking across the frosty glass at him; and the usual rite was silently completed. They were hungry; her appetite was always a natural and healthy one, and his sometimes matched it, as happened that night.