Marriage is not a process for prolonging the life of love, sir. It merely mummifies its corpse.

Unseen in the background, Fate was quietly slipping lead into the boxing-glove.

Every author really wants to have letters printed in the papers. Unable to make the grade, he drops down a rung of the ladder and writes novels.

Into the face of the young man who sat on the terrace of the Hotel Magnifique at Cannes there had crept a look of furtive shame, the shifty, hangdog look which announces that an Englishman is about to talk French.

There is only one cure for gray hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine.

Some minds are like soup in a poor restaurant—better left unstirred.

He had just about enough intelligence to open his mouth when he wanted to eat, but certainly no more.