Yessir.
Campaspe was thinking. When, exactly, do you expect him? she asked.
Harold? He telephoned, or a man named Drains, his man, telephoned that he would come in this afternoon.
So he's named Harold. Prewett—she rolled it over—, no, I don't remember that.
The glass that held the cocktail was Venetian. Campaspe regarded its crumpled and gold-flecked convolutions before she began to sip the contents.
Ki makes good cocktails. I'm glad you're not going to lose him, glad you're not going to lose the green taffeta. Oh! I suppose you wouldn't anyway. You are lucky, Paulet. Hundreds of people would give you a dime a week to keep you from going under. You are cheerful and amusing and decorative. I'm glad I didn't marry you. No husband can be cheerful and amusing and decorative to his wife, and a man who is cheerful and amusing and decorative to the world, but who ceases to be so to his wife, soon loses his self-confidence, and fails to interest anybody.
Paul sipped his cocktail. The clock struck five. Ki opened the door for John Armstrong, a young stock-broker, who suggested something of the prizefighter in his good-natured virility.
Hello, Mrs. Lorillard. . . . Hello, Paul. Drinks?
