“She used to be known as ‘The Cat of Curzon Street,’ but I hear she is still quite incredibly pretty,” Madame Ruiz murmured, turning to admire a somnolent peacock, with moping fan, poised upon the curved still arm of a marble mænad.
“How sweet something smells.”
“It’s the China lilies.”
“I believe it’s my handkerchief ...” he said.
“Vain wicked boy; ah, if you would but decide, and marry some nice, intelligent girl.”
“I’m too young yet.”
“You’re twenty-six!”
“And past the age of folly-o,” he made airy answer, drawing from his breast-pocket a flat, jewel-encrusted case, and lighting a cigarette.
“Think of the many men, darling, of twenty-six....” Madame Ruiz broke off, focusing the fruit-bearing summit of a slender arecia palm.
“Foll-foll-folly-o!” he laughed.