The girl seated herself in a cool, cane rocker, and picked up a palm-leaf fan. “Hundreds of things. To begin with, what are people wearing in Town just now?”
“In London? Oh, frock coats, rather longer than ever, and narrow-stripe trousers, and toppers with just twopennyworth of curl in them—not more.”
“But I mean the women?”
“Fifteen yards to the skirt, and they’re beginning to drape them. The fashionable deformity at present is elephantiasis of the biceps—I mean gigot sleeves. They start at the ears, and go down to the elbows—some of them further.”
“Ah,” said Miss Kildare, thoughtfully, “I used to have good arms. Not quite as nice as Mabel’s, though. But latterly I haven’t been in places where evening dress was used. By the way, do you dance still?”
“Keen on it as ever.”
“What’s the waltz like now?”
“Capering on hot bricks. Heaps more exercise to the furlong. People kill themselves at it much sooner.”
“Reverse?”
“In the north of England, where they all dance well, they’re like the Americans, and go each way alternately. In London and the south, where most of them waltz vilely, reversing is Aceldama.”