So these poor exiles continue to sacrifice themselves and drift aimlessly about Paris, making it so full that there’s scarcely room for people like myself—­who really are on important work here—­to breathe.

Imagine!  I met Eleanor Dashgood on the Boulevard Haussmann to-day, descending from her car with her two poms yapping at her heels, just as if she were chez elle.  I really felt like saying something pointed; but, after all, my only comment was, “My dear, what a strange lot of people one meets in Paris nowadays!”

“Yes, dearest,” she said, “that just occurred to me, too.”  I’m wondering now what the creature meant.  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.  I hope these short tight skirts will reach the ankles before they reach England, for I notice the people who have the courage to wear them generally lack the excuse of symmetry.

Figurez-vous! Jenny Bounceley, who considers herself quite a Parisienne now she’s got her official carte d’alimentation, appeared the other day in a skirt that resembled the jupe of a gamine.  I think it’s disgraceful in one of her age and proportions.  If she were simply knock-kneed; but, as Bertie says, she’s knock-ankled as well.

Votre bien devouee,

ANNE.

* * * * *

“RUMANIA.  REDIDIVUS.”

East African Standard.

To judge from the rumours of revolution, this false concord is only too apt.