"Parties aren't as restful as they used to be," he said. "It's Prohibition, I guess. People seem always to be working their heads off to have a good time before the police come. Listen to the noise around here, and everybody's stone sober. You don't seem to fit at all, Mrs. Drake."
"Why?" She wasn't at all pleased.
"You are not American for one thing. You are the beautiful lady who sits in the box of honor with the Valentinos draped around you and languidly wave your fan at the bullfight. You ride in your open carriage and throw coins at the village boys on fiesta days in your native green and white little town in northern Spain. And you marry the richest man in the country-side."
"Oh, but I don't. I marry the handsome young American whom I meet in Paris. Lucy will tell you."
"I knew it would be something romantic, anyway. It is written on your face. You are impulse, reckless. You probably worry your husband a lot but you keep him interested. And that is the first qualification of a good wife. You are the real thing, I think. Olga Lorenzo, present wife of the famous male film vamp, standing over there by the door—she is made up so as to fairly shout romance, exotic appeal. But her face is selfish,
