"I don't believe you will go far," says Mrs. Herrick, slowly. Kelly glances at her quickly, but she does not lift her eyes from the little sock, and her fingers move rapidly, easily as ever.
"London or Paris," he says,—"the city of fogs or the city of frogs. I don't know which I prefer."
"Better stay where you are," says Brian.
"Well, I really didn't think her so very plain," says Bella Fitzgerald, who thinks it pretty to say the kind thing always. "A large mouth is an affliction, certainly; and as for her complexion—but really, after all, it is better to see it as it is than painted and powdered, as one sees other people."
This is a faint cut at Olga, who is fond of powder, and who has not scrupled to add to her charms by a little touch of rouge now and then when she felt pallor demanded it.
"I think a little artificial aid might improve poor Miss Browne," says Hermia Herrick. Miss Browne is the new arrival.
"I don't. I think it is an abominable thing to cheat the public like that," says Miss Fitzgerald, doggedly: "nobody respectable would do it. The demi-monde paint and powder."
"Do they? how do you know, dear?" asks Olga Bohun, sweetly.
Miss Fitzgerald, feeling she has made a faux-pas, colors violently, tries to get herself out of it, and flounders helplessly. Lord Rossmoyne is looking surprised, Ulic Ronayne and Desmond amused.
"Every one says so," says the fair Bella, at last, in a voice that trembles with anger: "you know very well they do."