Various specialists, who cared for the health and beauty of her body, had entered and made their unctuous exits.

The major had gone to Tuxedo for the week's end; her maid had bronchitis; two horses required the veterinary, and the kitchen range a new water-back.
Cards had come for the Caithness function; cards for young Austin Wadsworth's wedding to a Charleston girl of rumoured beauty; Caragnini was to sing for Mrs.Vendenning; a live llama, two-legged, had consented to undermine Christianity for Mrs.Pyne-Johnson and her guests.
"Would Sylvia be ready for the inspection of imported head-gears to harmonise with the gowns being built by Constantine?
"When-- "Would she receive the courteous agent of 'The Reigning Beauties of Manhattan,' to arrange for her portrait and biographical sketch?
"When-- "Would she realise that Jefferson B.Doty could turn earth into heaven for any young chatelaine by affixing to the laundry his anti-microbe drying machine emitting sixty sterilised hot-air blasts in thirty seconds, at a cost of one-tenth of one mill per blast?
"And when--" But she turned her head, looking wearily across the room at the brightly burning fire beside which Mrs.Ferrall sat, nibbling mint-paste, very serious over one of those books that "everybody was reading." "How far have you read ?" inquired Sylvia without interest, turning over a new letter to cut with her paper-knife.
Grace ruffled the uncut pages of her book without looking up, then yawned shamelessly: "She's decided to try living with him for awhile, and if they find life agreeable she'll marry him.

...

Pleasant situation, isn't it?
Nice book, very; and they say that somebody is making a play of it.

I"-- She yawned again, showing her small, brilliant teeth--"I wonder what sort of people write these immoral romances!" "Probably immoral people," said Sylvia indifferently.