‘Crepe de Chine,’ Maude suggested.
‘But in Ophelia’s day such a thing had never been heard of,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. ‘A net of silver thread—’
‘Exactly,’ cried Mrs. Beecher, ‘with some sort of jewelling upon it. That was just what I had imagined. Of course it should be cut classically and draped—my dressmaker is such a treasure—and I should have a gold embroidery upon the white silk.’
‘Crewel work,’ said Maude.
‘Or a plain cross-stitch pattern. Then a tiara of pearls on the head. Shakespeare—’
At the name of the poet their three consciences pricked simultaneously. They looked at each other and then at the clock with dismay.
‘We must—we really must go on with our reading,’ cried Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. ‘How did we get talking about these dresses?’
‘It was my fault,’ said Mrs. Beecher, looking contrite.
‘No, dear, it was mine,’ said Maude. ‘You remember it all came from my saying that Frank had gone to the ball as the Pied Piper.’
‘I am going to read the very first poem that I open,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer remorselessly. ‘I am afraid that it is almost time that I started, but we may still be able to skim over a few pages. Now then! There! Setebos! What a funny name!’