ken your back picking those hundreds of violets?

Hating the fatuous young men in the doorways more bitterly for every
instant that she had to maintain her tableau, the smiling Alice knew
fierce impulses to spring to her feet and shout at them, "You IDIOTS!"
Hands in pockets, they lounged against the pilasters, or faced one
another, laughing vaguely, each one of them seeming to Alice no more
than so much mean beef in clothes. She wanted to tell them they were no
better than that; and it seemed a cruel thing of heaven to let them go
on believing themselves young lords. They were doing nothing, killing
time. Wasn't she at her lowest value at least a means of killing time?
Evidently the mean beeves thought not. And when one of them finally
lounged across the corridor and spoke to her, he was the very one to
whom she preferred her loneliness.

"Waiting for somebody, Lady Alicia?" he asked, negligently; and his easy
burlesque of her name was like the familiarity of the rest of him. He
was one of those full-bodied, grossly handsome men who are powerful and
active, but never submit themselves to the rigour of becoming athletes,
though they shoot and fish from expensive camps. Gloss is the most
shining outward mark of the type. Nowadays these men no longer use
brilliantine on their moustaches, but they have gloss bought from
manicure-girls, from masseurs, and from automobile-makers; and their
eyes, usually large, are glossy. None of this is allowed to interfere
with business; these are "good business men," and often make large
fortunes. They are men of imagination about two things--women and money,
and, combining their imaginings about both, usually make a wise first
marriage. Later, however, they are apt to imagine too much about some
little woman without whom life seems duller than need be. They run away,
leaving the first wife well enough dowered. They are never intentionally
unkind to women, and in the end they usually make the mistake of
thinking they have had their money's worth of life. Here was Mr. Harvey
Malone, a young specimen in an earlier stage of development, trying to
marry Henrietta Lamb, and now sauntering over to speak to Alice, as a
time-killer before his next dance with Henrietta.

Alice made no response to his question, and he dropped lazily into the
vacant chair, from which she sharply withdrew her hand. "I might as well
use his chair till he comes, don't you think? You don't MIND, do you,
old girl?"