“Yes, dear; very thin and pale indeed.”
“Now you mention it yes, of course; but so she always did.”
“Slightly, George; and there was a delicacy in the tinting of her skin—liliaceous, I might say, but she was not pale.”
“Bravo, dear! That’s a capital word. Do for a Tennysonian poem—‘the Lay of the Liliaceous Lady.’”
“I was speaking seriously, my dear,” said Mrs Canninge stiffly. “I beg that you will not make those absurd remarks.”
“Certainly not, dear; but liliaceous is not a serious way of speaking of a lady.”
“Then I will not use it, George, for I wish to speak to you very seriously about Beatrice Lambent.”
The young man winced a little, but said nothing. He merely rustled his newspaper and assumed an air of attention.
“I don’t think that dear Beatrice is well, George.”
“Tell Lambent to send her off to the seaside for a good blow.”