"I'd like your boy friend better, though, Hazel," I told my little pal as we prepared to retire the night following the races, "if only he would talk about something else once in a while besides himself, his family and his father's uncountable millions. I crave a little variety in conversation, if you know what I mean."
Hazel is pouring herself into a negligée that belonged in La Vie Parisienne and nowhere else. She sneers at me.
"Blah!" she says, "He's spent about three thousand dollars keeping us from yawning since we met him. I don't care what he talks about!"
That's the tip-off on Hazel.
A few evenings later we had a date with the faithful William to go motoring, but Hazel broke out with a terrible headache in the afternoon and by nightfall she was pretty low. So the auto ride was out as far as she was concerned, but she insisted that I go along with our mutual friend and not stay in on her account. She said she wished to write some letters and go to bed early; also, she most earnestly desired me to go with William so that I could find out what he really thought of her and report back. Really, I didn't like the job, but I do like Hazel, so with some misgivings I gave Will a treat by accepting.
O sole mia!
We rode to a cute little inn on the outskirts of Paris
