“Oh, darling Bill, how dense of me! And how perfectly sweet of you!”
“Chilvers said you were going out.”
“So I was—to Sloane Street. There’s a place there where they’ve got a perfectly wonderful new hip band.”
“A hip band?”
“Yes, Bill, H.I.P. hip, B.A.N.D. band. A band to confine the hips. You wear it next the skin.”
“I blush for you, Virginia. You shouldn’t describe your underwear to a young man to whom you are not related. It isn’t delicate.”
“But, Bill dear, there’s nothing indelicate about hips. We’ve all got hips—although we poor women are trying awfully hard to pretend we haven’t. This hip band is made of red rubber and comes just to above the knee, and it’s simply impossible to walk in it.”
“How awful!” said Bill. “Why do you do it?”
“Oh, because it gives one such a noble feeling to suffer for one’s silhouette. But don’t let’s talk about my hip band. Give me George’s message.”
“He wants to know whether you’ll be in at four o’clock this afternoon.”