"I can't say that: it is a tremendous question. I don't know what she is; I only know what she is not."
"What, then?"
"'Fashioned so slenderly, young and so fair,'" quotes he, promptly. At which they both laugh.
"If she is an old dowdy," says Mrs. Branscombe, somewhat irreverently, "I sha'n't be one scrap afraid of her, and I do so want to go right over the castle. Somebody—Lord Alfred—would take me, I dare say. Yes,"—with sudden animation,—"let us go."
"I shall poison Lord Alfred presently," says Dorian, calmly. "Nothing shall prevent me. Your evident determination to spend your day with him has sealed his doom. Very well: send an answer, and let us spend a 'nice long happy day in the country.'"
"We are always spending that, aren't we?" says Mrs. Branscombe, adorably. Then, with a sigh, "Dorian, what shall I wear?"
He doesn't answer. For the moment he is engrossed, being deep in his "Times," busy studying the murders, divorces, Irish atrocities, and other pleasantries it contains.
"Dorian, do put down that abominable paper," exclaims she again, impatiently, leaning her arms on the table, and regarding him anxiously from the right side of the very forward urn that still will come in her way. "What shall I wear?"
"It can't matter," says Dorian: "you look lovely in everything, so it is impossible for you to make a mistake."
"It is a pity you can't talk sense,"—reproachfully. Then, with a glance literally heavy with care, "There is that tea-green satin trimmed with Chantilly."