“I remember now, my dear Miss Araminta,” said he. “It was given to my grandfather of pious memory as a token of esteem by that singularly constituted monarch George the Fourth.”
“I am sure it must be almost as nice as Muffin’s was,” said Miss Perry. “That old gentleman with the white mustache turned round to look at it.”
“Did he?” said Cheriton, fixing his eyeglass truculently.
“Muffin’s was mauve,” said Miss Perry. “But I think lilac is almost as nice, don’t you?”
“It is all a matter of taste, my dear Miss Araminta. Fancy one entering a church in the West End of London with an umbrella with an ivory handle!”
“Why shouldn’t one, pray?” snorted Caroline from the recesses of her bath-chair.
“My dear Caroline,” said Cheriton, “it looks so worldly.”
“Humph!” said Caroline.
Scarcely had the procession reached the outer precincts of Saint Sepulchre’s when its ears were smitten with the sound of a thousand fervent voices uplifted in adulation of their Creator.
“There, Cheriton,” said Caroline, “now you are satisfied. We are late.”