decide were spurious, but as long as one was a guest one behaved accordingly. Léon, too, seemed more elastic away from the dominating presence of the Casimirs. The small group of patrons included several acquaintances of the previous night with whom Grover exchanged nods. The gray-haired woman who had danced the tango with Léon came in with a Spanish-looking man and sat at the next table. Léon addressed her as Marchesa.
"You are going chez Floss afterwards?" she asked, and Léon replied that he hadn't been invited.
"That doesn't matter," said the Marchesa, diving into her vanity case. "Neither was I. Come with us and bring your friend."
"Who is Floss?" inquired Grover when the lady had got up to dance with her Spaniard.
"Floss is a habit to which many restless souls are addicted."
"A bad habit?"
"I should say she was an excellent one, in moderation. People are drawn to her big house as tired birds are drawn to the centre of a whirlwind. Shall we look in at her party and see what she's got?"
"She may not like it. It's very late."
"Not for Floss."
In a short time it became evident that half the patrons of the place were on their way to Floss, and Grover soon found himself wedged into a smart car racing up the Champs Elysées past cartloads of carrots
