"'A twentieth-century miss,'" said Adèle. "'The golf girl,' if you like. Daphne and I can fit you out, and you can wear your own shoes. As for a wig—any coiffeur'll do. A nice fluffy bobbed one would be best—the same shade as your moustache."
Instinctively none of us spoke.
The idea was so admirable—the result would be so triumphant, that we hardly dared to breathe lest Berry should stamp upon our hopes.
For one full slow-treading minute he fingered his chin….
Then he wrinkled his nose.
"Not 'The Golf Girl,'" he said. "That's much too pert. I couldn't deliver the goods. No. I must go as something more luscious. What about 'The Queen of the May'?"
* * * * *
At twenty-five minutes to ten that evening I was writing a note, and wondering, while I did so, whether the original 'Incroyables' ever sat down.
I had just decided that, rather than continually risk dislocation of the knee, they probably either reclined or leaned against pillars when fatigued, when something impelled me to glance over my shoulder.
Framed in the doorway was standing Berry.