Our young friend here, we may be sure, will use it as an instrument for good.

He has, I feel certain, a sense of his responsibility." "He is a nice boy," said the Grafin simply; "he has such pretty hair." In one of the window recesses Rhapsodie Pantril was talking vaguely but beautifully to a small audience on the subject of chromatic chords; she had the advantage of knowing what she was talking about, an advantage that her listeners did not in the least share.

"All through his playing there ran a tone-note of malachite green," she declared recklessly, feeling safe from immediate contradiction; "malachite green, my colour--the colour of striving." Having satisfied the ruling passion that demanded gentle and dextrous self-advertisement, she realised that the Augusta Smith in her craved refreshment, and moved with one of her over-awed admirers towards the haven where peaches and iced coffee might be considered a certainty.
The refreshment alcove, which was really a good-sized room, a sort of chapel-of-ease to the larger drawing-room, was already packed with a crowd who felt that they could best discuss Ronnie's triumph between mouthfuls of fruit salad and iced draughts of hock-cup.

So brief is human glory that two or three independent souls had even now drifted from the theme of the moment on to other more personally interesting topics.
"Iced mulberry salad, my dear, it's a specialite de la maison, so to speak; they say the roving husband brought the recipe from Astrakhan, or Seville, or some such outlandish place." "I wish my husband would roam about a bit and bring back strange palatable dishes.

No such luck, he's got asthma and has to keep on a gravel soil with a south aspect and all sorts of other restrictions." "I don't think you're to be pitied in the least; a husband with asthma is like a captive golf-ball, you can always put your hand on him when you want him." "All the hangings, violette de Parme, all the furniture, rosewood.
Nothing is to be played in it except Mozart.