To love one that is great, is almost to be great one's self.

Spring was ravishing around town, bursting and budding and blooming. It was one of those nights when the air is blood-temperature and it’s impossible to tell where you leave off and it begins.

Silk – that’s what I want rubbing against me. I feel so woolen all the time.

I had a sinister premonition of how embarrassing an homme fatal could be when his charms are no longer fatal to you.

Why? Oh, Holy Cow!” I groaned. “Please not to use these ridiculous expressions,” he exploded in exasperation. “I have never heard any other Americans use them except those – what do you call them – those cartoon animals. Mickey Mouse.” “Micky Mice,” I said firmly.

Now.′ He said, ‘I have to ask you three question. How old are you? Are you in love? And what in God’s name are you doing here?

There isn’t anything you do in life that isn’t a gamble, Gorce,” he replied.

If his wife doesn’t want him, I certainly don’t, was my way of putting it.

All at once I found myself standing there gazing down that enchanted boulevard in the blue, blue evening. Everything seemed to fall into place. Here was all the gaiety and glory and sparkle I knew was going to be life if I could just grasp it.

As a matter of fact I’d had my hair dyed a marvelous shade of pale red so popular with Parisian tarts that season.