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Updated: June 7, 2025
She had removed her coat and was seated on an oval lounge gazing into the open fire. He was standing before it, looking taller and stronger than ever, in a gray lounging suit. A cigarette depended loosely from the corner of his mouth. He said abruptly: "How are you getting on with your acting?" She glanced in surprise. "Gourdain," Brent explained.
"She is an orchid, and of a rare species. She has a glorious imagination, like a bird of paradise balancing itself into an azure sky, with every plume raining color and brilliancy." "Somewhat exaggerated," was Susan's pleased, laughing comment when Brent told her. "Somewhat," said Brent. "But my friend Gourdain is stark mad about women's dressing well.
Yet so corrupting is the atmosphere about rich people that Gourdain, who had other rich clients, no less than Clélie who got her whole living from Palmer, was at a glance in the flea class and not in the dog class. Brent looked for signs of the same thing in Susan's face. The signs should have been there; but they were not. "Not yet," thought he. "And never will be now."
It is different at different times sometimes inspiringly sweet as the incense of heaven, as my metaphoric friend Gourdain would say sometimes as deadly sweet as the odors of the drugs men take to drag them to hell sometimes repulsively sweet, making one heart sick for pure, clean smell-less air yet without the courage to seek it.
Gourdain and young Madame Délière formed an interesting, unusually attractive exhibit of the parasitism that is as inevitable to the rich as fleas to a dog. Gourdain was a superior man, Clélie a superior woman. There was nothing of the sycophant, or even of the courtier, about either.
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