"Monsieur enjoys himself like this every night in Paris?"
A soft, a very seductive, voice. The woman who envied her success
compared it to the purring of a cat. Men as a rule found no fault with
it, especially those who heard it for the first time.
Duncombe set down his glass, now almost empty. He looked from the stain
on the table-cloth into the eyes of Madame, and again she thought them
very unlike the eyes of a drunken man.
"Why not? It's the one city in the world to enjoy one's self in.
Half-past four, and here we are as jolly as anything. Chucked out of
everywhere in London at half-past twelve. 'Time, gentlemen, please!'
And out go the lights. Jove, I wonder what they'd think of this at the
Continental! Let's--let's have another bottle."
The fair-haired girl--Flossie to her friends, Mademoiselle Mermillon
until you had been introduced--whispered in his ear. He shook his head
vaguely. She had her arm round his neck. He removed it gently.
"We'll have another here first anyhow," he declared. "Hi, Garcon! Ring
the bell, there's a good chap, Monsieur--dash it, I've forgotten your
name. No, don't move. I'll do it myself.
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