He turns her round.
‘No, it couldn’t be done.’
‘Was it me you were thinking of?’
‘Just for the moment,’ regretfully, ‘but you have no style.’
She catches hold of him by the sleeve.
‘Not in this, of course. But, oh, Kenneth, if you saw me in my merino! It’s laced up the back in the very latest.’
‘Hum,’ doubtfully; ‘but let’s see it.’
It is produced from a drawer, to which the old lady runs with almost indecent haste. The connoisseur examines it critically.
‘Looks none so bad. Have you a bit of chiffon for the neck? It’s not bombs nor Kaisers nor Tipperary that men in the trenches think of, it’s chiffon.’
‘I swear I have, Kenneth. And I have a bangle, and a muff, and gloves.’