After Strelsa and Mrs. Lannis had gone, a pair of old cats dropped in, one in ermine, the other in sea-otter; and the inevitable discussion of Strelsa Leeds began with a brutality and frankness paralleled only in kennel parlance.
To a criticism of the girl's slenderness of physique Mrs. Sprowl laughed loud and long.
"That's what's setting all the men crazy. The world's as full of curves as I am; plumpness to the verge of redundancy is supposed to be popular among men; a well-filled stocking behind the footlights sets the gaby agape. But your man of the world has other tastes."
"Jaded tastes," said somebody.
"Maybe they're jaded and vicious—but they're his. And maybe that girl has a body and limbs which are little more accented than a boy's. But it's the last shriek among people who know."
"Not such a late one, either," said somebody. "Who was the French sculptor who did the Merode?"
"Before that Lippo fixed the type," observed somebody else.
"Personally," remarked a third, "I don't fancy pipe-stems. Mrs. Leeds needs padding—to suit my notions."
"Wait a year," said Mrs. Sprowl, significantly. "The beauty of that girl will be scandalous when she fills out a little more.... If she only had the wits to match what she is going to be!—But there's a streak of something silly in her—I suspect latent sentiment—which is likely to finish her if she doesn't look sharp. Fancy her taking up the cudgels for Ricky, now!—a boy whose wits would be of no earthly account except in doing what he is doing. And he's apparently persuaded that little minx that he's intellectual! I'll have to talk to Ricky."
"You'd better talk to your nephew, too," said somebody, laughing.