‘What’s the matter now?’ demanded Mervyn, making his way up to her as she sat in a remote corner of the drawing-room, in the evening. ‘Why were you not at dinner?’
‘There was no room, I believe.’
‘Nonsense! our table dines eight-and-twenty, and there were not twenty.’
‘That was a large party, and you know I am not out.’
‘You don’t look like it in that long-sleeved white affair, and nothing on your head either. Where are those ivy-leaves you had yesterday—real, weren’t they?’
‘They were not liked.’
‘Not liked! they were the prettiest things I have seen for a long time. Acton said they made you look like a nymph—the green suits that shiny light hair of yours, and makes you like a picture.’
‘Yes, they made me look forward and affected.’
‘Now who told you that? Has the Fennimore got to her old tricks?’
‘Oh no, no!’