"I say, sister, how about robing yourself in your raiment of joy and coming with yours truly to a palace of jazz, there to dine and show the populace what real dancing is ?" "Can't, Barney.

Mr.Hunt"-- the name given the painter at his original christening--"asked the Duchess and me to have dinner up here.

He's to cook it himself." "For your sake I hope he cooks better than he paints." And sliding down in his chair until he rested upon a more comfortable vertebra, the elegant Barney lit a monogrammed cigarette, and with idle patience swung his bamboo stick.
"You're half an hour late, Maggie," Hunt began at her again in his rumbling voice.

"Can't stand for such a waste of my time!" "How about my time ?" retorted Maggie, who indeed had a grievance.

"I was supposed to have the day off, but instead I had to carry that tray of cigarettes around till the last person in the Ritzmore had finished lunch.