"Poor bangles!" says Ulic Ronayne, in a low tone heard only by her.
"What a heavy sigh!"
"A selfish one, too. More for myself than for the discarded bangles. Yet their grievance is mine."
"I thought they suited you," says Desmond.
"Did you? Well, but they had grown so common; every one used to go about laden with them. And then they made such a tiresome tinkle-tinkle all over the place."
"What place?" says Lord Rossmoyne, who objects to slang of even the mildest description from any woman's lips, most of all from the lips of her whom he hopes to call his wife.
"Don't be stupid!" [says] this prospective wife, [with] considerable petulance.
"You are fickle, I doubt," goes on Rossmoyne, unmoved. "A few months ago you raved about your bangles, and had the prettiest assortment I think I ever saw. Thirty-six on each arm, or something like it. We used to call them your armor. You said you were obliged to wear the same amount exactly on each arm, lest you might grow crooked."
"I know few things more unpleasant than having one's silly remarks brought up to one years afterwards," says Olga, with increasing temper.
"Months not years," says Rossmoyne, carefully. Whereupon Mrs. Bohun turns her back upon him, and Mrs. Herrick tells herself she would like to give him a good shake for so stupidly trying to ruin his own game, and Ulic Ronayne feels he is on the brink of swearing with him an eternal friendship.