"The Spanish composer? Oh, rather! He's coming over about his new opera. He's all right. At least, I [bear] him rather, but girls like him."
"And who will be the great card this time, Savile?"
"Of course, Roy Beaumont, the inventor."
"What on earth's he invented?"
"Himself, I should think. He's only about twenty-one. Roy's a capital chap, really. The only thing is, he wears hats that he thinks suit him. Otherwise he dresses rather well, for a dandy."
"Why on earth shouldn't his hats suit him?" said Lady Chetwode in surprise.
"Oh, never mind! I can't go into all that. Why, because you ought to wear things, because they're right, not because——Oh, girls don't understand dress! Don't let's fatigue ourselves discussing it. Any one can see you've never been to Eton."
"Well, I should rather hope they could," murmured Felicity, looking in the glass.
"F. J. Rivers and Arthur Mervyn, the actor, are coming, and—oh, a lot more."
"I see, it's a clever party. Isn't it fun, Savile, being the only stupid person in a crowd of clever people? They make such a fuss about one. Aren't any real people coming?"