"Well, I didn't sell them, but they were sold for me." She hesitated, then went on hurriedly. "Adrian Fellowes knew of a very sad case—a girl in the opera who had had misfortune, illness, and bad luck; and he suggested it. He said he didn't like to ask for a cheque, because we were always giving, but selling my old wardrobe would be a sort of lucky find—that's what he called it."
Byng nodded, with a half-frown, however. "That was ingenious of Fellowes, and thoughtful, too. Now, what does a gown cost, one like that you have on?"
"This—let me see. Why, fifty pounds, perhaps. It's not a ball gown, of course."
He laughed mockingly. "Why, 'of course,' And what does a ball gown cost—perhaps?" There was a cynical kind of humour in his eye.
"Anything from fifty to a hundred and fifty—maybe," she replied, with a little burst of merriment.
"And how much did you get for the garments you had worn twice, and then seen them suddenly grow aged in their extreme youth?"
"Ruddy, do not be nasty—or scornful. I've always worn my gowns more than twice—some of them a great many times, except when I detested them. And anyhow, the premature death of a gown is very, very good for trade. That influences many ladies, of course."
He burst out laughing, but there was a satirical note in the gaiety, or something still harsher.
"'We deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us,'" he answered. "It's all such a hollow make-believe."
"What is?"