and emeralds. Inside, of course, I am seething with personality, but it belongs to me. No one else can touch it. But they can recognize it. They can know that it is there. That is why fifty thousand people cheered me when I passed through New York recently.
I am fifty, Mr. Deacon—think of it, fifty!—but I shall look younger every year because I possess an immortal soul. Look at these poor girls! In two short years their skins will begin to sag, bags will appear under their eyes. They will not last, because they have no souls. Poor weak moths, they live but for the instant. Only I, Ariane Norvell, am immortal.
Having made this quite considerable speech, Mrs. Norvell did not speak again. Ambrose had drunk so many cocktails that he had succeeded in conquering his nervousness and he listened listlessly to the lady while he was eating. He found her words a soothing accompaniment to his dinner. Her silence was equally undisturbing.
This is your party, Mr. Deacon, Imperia interrupted her animated conversation with Jaime long enough to tell him.
After the soup course, champagne was served, but Ambrose, glancing down the table laid with gold
