“Oh, of course! New York’s every bit as smart as Paris, only it eats your head off. Have you many jewels?”
“Very few—compared with the shop-window decorations of New York and English women.”
“We do overload ourselves,” said Lady Barnstaple amiably. “I’ve seen women turn actually grey under the weight of their tiaras. Still, unless you blaze at a great party, you are simply not seen. But of course the Barnstaple jewels are mine till I die, and I sold all my own after having them copied; you could wear some of those if you liked, although, being fresh from the other side, you’d probably scorn imitations.”
“I certainly should.”
“Oh, you’ll get over all that! We are all shams nowadays.”
“You are certainly frank enough.”
“A mere habit—a fashion. Everybody shouts all he knows just now. We even talk of things at the table that would quite shock—Chicago, for instance. And as for your poor little San Francisco—there are the most amusing points of resemblance between the Americans and the English middle-class.”
“Then perhaps you would not mind telling me if you would have taken the trouble to meet us this afternoon if I had brought a million with me.”
“Dear me, no; not if you had arrived at such an unearthly hour. I assure you I did not intend to be rude, but I always sleep from half after four to half after five. I don’t take my tea with the others.”
“And there would have been no demonstration, I suppose.”