“Dear me! How fine we are! I thought it was some young girl of the neighbourhood leaving cards on your mother! Why are you wearing white? Going to a wedding?”
Diana coloured to the roots of her pretty hair.
“It’s one of my washing frocks,” she submitted.
“Oh, is it? Well, I like to see you in dark colours—they are more suited to—to your age. Only very young people should wear white.”
He yawned capaciously. “Only very young people,” he repeated, closing his eyes. “Try and remember that.”
“Mrs. Ross-Percival wears white,” said Diana, quietly. “You are always holding her up to admiration. And she’s sixty, if she’s a day.”
Mr. Polydore May opened his eyes and bounced up in his chair.
“Mrs. Ross-Percival is a very beautiful woman!” he snapped out. “One of the beautiful women of society. And she’s married.”
“Oh, yes, she’s a grandmother,” murmured Diana, smiling. “But you don’t tell her not to wear white.”
“Good God, of course not! It’s no business of mine! What are you talking about? She’s not my daughter!”