Dolly. The one I took to Folkestone, you remember?
[With a little attempt at a kiss.
Harry. [Gently repulsing her.] No, I don't. [She puts her arms round his neck; he gently pushes her aside.] Business first, please. [Reads.] Gown of white cloth with Postillion coat of Rose du Barri silk, motifs of silver, forty-five guineas——
Dolly. You won't grumble at that, for when I first put it on, you stood and looked at me and said, "I want to know how it is, Doll, that the moment a dress gets on to your shoulders, it seems to brisk up, and be as cocky and proud of itself——"
[Again attempting to embrace him.
Harry. [Again repulsing her.] Yes, well now I do know! Jolly proud and cocky your dresses ought to feel at this price! [Reads.] "Evening cloak of strawberry satin charmeuse, trimmed silk passementerie, motifs and fringed stoles of dull gold embroidery, thirty-five guineas." What's a motif?
Dolly. It's a trimming—a lot of little touches—a sort of—a—a—a—[making a little descriptive gesture] a suggestion—a motif——
Harry. And Mr. John Spearman's motif is that I should pay him five hundred and fifty-six pounds. Well, I don't like Mr. John Spearman's motifs, and I'm not going to fall in with them. [Puts the bill on the table rather angrily, takes up another, reads.] "Artistic lingerie!" I wonder why all these people call themselves artists! "Underwear of daintiness and distinction."
Dolly. Well, you've always praised——