Dodsworth by Sinclair Lewis

It seemed a singularly undistinguished morning. Sam looked forward only to a vague dinner with Kurt and a friend from Vienna, and as Kurt had said nothing more ecstatic about his friend than that he was "soch a good fellow and he speaks seven languages and is so fonny," Sam knew that the fellow couldn't be up to much. For the afternoon they planned to see the exhibit of Kolbe's sculptures at Cassirer's and the French impressionists at the Gallerie Tannhauser, and Sam hoped (not very optimistically) to lure Fran out to Charlottenburg to inspect factories and tenements for laborers. She liked to discuss what she called the Lower Classes with every one save members of the Lower Classes.

He lolled in the sitting-room of their suite, rather slovenly in dressing-gown and ancient slippers, which Fran was always going to replace by new elegance and never did. When he had finished reading the Paris American papers and had exclaimed over the fact that Mr. T. Q. Obelisk of Zenith had just landed in Europe and was going to squander an entire three weeks in Paris, he had nothing more to do. He thought of answering Henry Hazzard's last letter. But--oh, thunder, there was no news--He thought of having a drink, and answered that it was much too early in the day. He thought of going for a walk but--oh, he'd walked all over the inner city.