They were getting vastly abusive over it, their chief stumbling block being the good looks of the men in question.

Lucy, who was plain, got them to hold their tongues.

Good looks were nothing, according to her; good figures were what was wanted.

Farther off, on a sofa, an attache had slipped his arm round Simonne's waist and was trying to kiss her neck, but Simonne, sullen and thoroughly out of sorts, pushed him away at every fresh attempt with cries of "You're pestering me!" and sound slaps of the fan across his face.

For the matter of that, not one of the ladies allowed herself to be touched.