He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. “I want to be your friend,” he said. I had no idea!” She sat down abruptly and threw her wrists limply upon the table. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night.
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