spirit and this girl, so impressed with Simone Calvette, must be led to reveal how he had spent the past few months, especially the last few days.
She poured herself a restorative drink of gin and crème de menthe, extolling its curative powers to Lucy. "But come, you still wear your coat! That is better, we shall have a good visit, you and I alone. First, you will excuse me while I refresh myself."
Her Moroccan mules smacked her bare heels like a resounding kiss as she shuffled toward the bedroom. Halfway she spied and picked up Maxine's black glove and waved it at Lucy.
"My masseuse is perhaps wondering where—" She laughed suddenly, thinking it so apt a description of the avid Maxine.
She's a liar, Lucy thought, smiling back. "I'd rather lose two gloves than one."
"You are as myself—all or nothing."
Lucy considered the possible innuendo. She would have to watch herself here, like backstage where if you opened your mouth it had a double meaning. She felt easier though and placed her coat on another chair, pulled up her garters, looked to see if she needed powder, and waited.
Simone closed the bedroom door and threw the glove into a drawer. The millionairess was a bore with her protestations of adoration. If Maxine believed one so great an artist, why did she not give the jewels instead of dangling them as future payment? The bed was still unmade as her rising hour did not coincide with Sunday hotel service. With sudden energy she made it, pummeling the cushions with the fury she felt against the Irish day chambermaid with whom she was feuding. At home chambermaids were more sympathetic, though hélas, in the end service everywhere depended upon tips. One had heard in Paris that Chicago was more America. The aspect of New York was truly formidable, of an originality unlike any city in Europe. Yet in this new world the taste of the people of means and pretensions was to be "European." Especially French in the aping of couture, hotel rooms, cuisine. Always to be offered crepes suzette. Next they will discover moules marinières. Their name alone made one wish for Marseilles and Le Vieux Port where they lie on the quay, succulent fruits of the sea in nests of clinging seaweed. And the slimy cobbles on which one slid and crawled at night up the narrow passage to Honore's as though on giant snails. Ah well! In New York it is the originality for Americans not to be American, and, it would seem, speaking words to strangers
