"Why call attention to the one and only masculine virtue?" she replied.
"Let me take your coat."
He straightened his tie in front of the looking-glass and turned to look at her with something like wonder in his eyes.
"Dear hostess," he exclaimed, "what has come to you?"
"An epoch of vanity," she declared, turning slowly around that he might appreciate better the clinging folds of her new black gown. "Don't dare to say that you don't like it, for heaven only knows what it cost me!"
"It isn't only your gown—it's your hair."
"Coiffured," she confided, "by an artist. Not an ordinary hairdresser at all. He only works for a few of our aristocracy and one or two leading ladies on the stage. I pulled it half down and built it up again, but it's an improvement, isn't it?"
"It suits you," he admitted. "But—but your colour!"
"Natural—absolutely natural," she insisted. "You can wet your finger and try if you like. It's excitement. If you look into the depths of my wonderful eyes—I have got wonderful eyes, haven't I?"
"Marvellous."
"You will see that I am suffering from suppressed excitement. To-night is quite an epoch. To tell you the truth, I am rather nervous about it."