"No; it makes you look too much like a Gainsborough—or no, more like a Sargent—which is worse. I mean worse for me, of course."
"Oh, dear! why am I always like something? Well, what am I to wear, Frank? I've just ordered a sort of fluffy grey chiffon—like a cloud."
"Wear that. You're always in the clouds, and I'm always looking up at them.... I hope it has a silver lining?"
"Perhaps it has. I don't know yet, it hasn't come home. Felicity's going to wear a sort of Watteau-ish dress, pink and white and blue, you know. Of course, she won't wear any jewels—she never will. You see, Chetwode has such a lot of old ones in his family. She says she's afraid, if she did, the Perfect Lady or Home Chirps might say 'Lady Chetwode as usual appeared in the "Chetwode emeralds"'—or something idiotic of that sort."
"How like her! Then just wear your string of pearls."
"Mayn't I wear the little turquoise heart that you—didn't give me, the one I bought in the Brompton Road and gave it to myself from you, so that I could honestly say you hadn't?"
"Better not, Sylvia. It looks as if it came out of a cracker. And we don't need any symbols and things, do we?"
"Very well.... I'm afraid, Frank ... I shall have to go now."
Woodville looked hurt.
"What? Already! Then why did you waste the precious minutes alone in making epigrams about F. G. Rivers? He's such a good fellow too, I always got on with him at Oxford."