"Perhaps it's because he's a man. You see, they're accustomed to curates."
CHAPTER XXXI
AT EDGWARE
Miss Brill had twisted up her hair and put on her Sunday dress to receive Vaughan.
To harmonise with the [Dickens's] garden it ought to have been white muslin with flounces and a pink sash. But it was a quite long, dark blue Liberty satin, made by a smart dressmaker in the Finchley Road. It had a high collar, an Empire waist, and gathers.
Her mother was delighted with it. Gladys had not been quite satisfied herself, and had tried to tie it in round the ankles with concealed string, to make it look more like a nobble skirt, as she called it.
Her almost too abundant hair had been piled over a pad, which gave her the appearance of having a swollen head. Yet even so she looked lovely, rather like an old-fashioned picture in the Academy of I'se Gan'ma, or something of the kind, suggesting a baby disguised as a grown-up-person.
Vaughan went through the usual ritual of asking after Mrs. Brill—he rather hurried Mr. Brill over his remark about the finest woman one would see in a day's march—then admired the weather, ordered tea, and asked for Miss Brill.