He went up, at all events, and for the twentieth time admired the dainty chic of the little apartment, telling himself, also for the twentieth time, that it was extraordinary how agreeable it was to be there -- agreeable with a distinctly local agreeableness whether its owner happened to be also there or not.

In this he was altogether sincere, and only properly discriminating.
He spent fifteen minutes wondering at her whimsical interest, and when she suddenly asked him if he really thought the race _had_ outgrown its physical conditions, he got up to go, declaring it was too bad, she must have been working up back numbers of the _Nineteenth Century_.
At which she consented to turn their talk into its usual personal channel, and he sat down again content.
"Doesn't the Princess Bobaloff write a charming hand!" Elfrida said presently, tossing him a square white envelope.
"It isn't hers if it's an invitation.

She has a wretched relation of a Frenchwoman living with her who does all that.

May I light a cigarette ?" "You know you may.

It is an invitation, but I didn't accept." "Her soiree last night?
If I'd known you had been asked I should have missed you." "I ought to tell you," Elfrida went on, coloring a little, "that I was invited through Leila Van Camp--that ridiculously rich girl, you know, they say Lucien is in love with.