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 incongruous against the motley and specious disarray of the background: the ribald badinage, the hoarse laughter, the provocative glances, the cynical judgments, the overdressed and wornout bodies, the dyed heads,—even Filoss's gilded fluff. "I think it's largely a matter of appetite; you see I'm not really hearty."

"I like you for being choosey, honey—but there isn't always ice-cream and truffles on the bill of fare, and it's more sensible to gulp down a bit of tripe and onions than go hungry."

"I'm not hungry," he laughed.

"Oh yes you are," she maintained. "I'm worried about you. . . Now wouldn't you think," she broke off, as she saw Mamie Mangum sink into the sofa he had abandoned, "that a floppy girl like that would know enough to wear floppy hats! But no, she goes on wearing those darn tight little things till she's most wore her eyebrows off."

Grover's gaze had wandered from Mamie to the door where a group of new arrivals was being welcomed by the prince. For weeks he had been gambling with himself on the chances of a third and definitive encounter with Olga Vaudreuil, and just as he had resigned himself to his losses, there she stood, beside a fat man whom he recognized as the burlesque harlequin. Something was happening within Grover which bore an analogy to Floss's description of his smile—a great flare followed by a great darkness. As though some overpoweringly fragrant flower had been thrust