“What?” screamed Eleanor.
“It’s all right, darling,” cried Madge. “It’s a dream. They’re not gooseberries at all. They’re cherries—blue cherries, and the shape’s rather like one—I wonder if you remember; I wore it at Henley last year, and it had a crushed strawberry——”
“Time,” said Crispin. “Maudlin memories of discarded headgear are bad for my heart. I only introduced this ghastly topic to illustrate the fugacity of women’s raiment. The hats you chose to-day will be out of date before they’re married.”
“I don’t think so,” said Madge. “I’m trying to buy well ahead. Of course——”
“One moment,” said David. “D’you mean to say that there’s even a possibility of such a thing?”
“Well, I’m a little bit anxious about that velvet toque. You see——”
A howl of dismay interrupted her.
“My favourite?” cried David. “The wicked one that dips over the left eye?” He threw up his hands. “Why, properly cared for, there’s years of wear in that hat.”
“Years of wear?” shrieked the girls.
“Years,” yelled Herrick. “An’ then it could be done up.”