Wilton examined the picture.
"A very dull, harmless, insipid style of prettiness," he said consolingly. "The kind of face that once seen is never remembered, as has been so well said of the characteristic British face. This woman is devoted to her husband; goes to church every Sunday, takes great interest in parish work, adores her children——"
"How many has she?"
He looked at the picture again.
"From her expression, I should say two—two boys; and I'm quite sure she's very much more interested in their reports and their colds, their sins and their talents, than in—for instance—Chetwode, or in anything of the kind you seem to suggest."
"She never comes to London," said Felicity. "They live nearly all the year round at their country place."
"Of course she doesn't come to London. Why should she? She has a domestic face. Her home is her world. If she ever does come to town, she wears a short serge skirt and a blouse with tight sleeves—because she doesn't know they're coming in again—and takes one of the boys to the dentist."
"And you can see all that in the porcelain picture?" said Felicity, laughing.
"More. Far more. And all in your favour."
"But I think you're rather prejudiced, Bertie. You're such a convinced Londoner yourself that you think every one who lives in the country must be a paragon of virtue, just as people who live in the country suppose their London friends to be given up to wickedness and frivolity. Lots of people have a very good time in the country."