Believe me, my dear, that
woman has illegally wangled a passport out of the authorities by
representing herself as her husband's typist--he's got a diplomatic
passport, you know. I inquired if the maid she had brought with
her had turned into a typist, too, to say nothing of the poms. The
_toupet_ of some people!
And, of course, all this unnecessary rabble is helping to make
everything _horriblement cher_. The price of things makes one's hair
stand on end like the quills of the fretful porcupine. I can assure
you that _le moindre petit diner coute les yeux de la tete_. Poor
Bobbie Lacklands had a _tragic_ experience yesterday. He said he quite
unthinkingly dropped into that most _recherche_ of eating places,
Fouquet's, for a snack. With only a modest balance at the bank he
ordered a sardine. Then he called for a _filet mignon_ and half-a-pint
of _vin rouge_--he was always a reckless spendthrift sort of boy, you
know. A cup of _cafe noir_ and an apple completed his financial ruin.
But he still declares that they were most awfully decent to him about
it. They agreed, with scarcely any trouble, to take all the notes and
loose silver he had with him on account. They accepted his securities
and are now allowing him to pay off the balance gradually.
Paris is beginning to think of dress once more, or I ought to say
undress, for with the skirts short and the sleeves short and the
bodice low there isn't _very_ much left to write about.
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