"Nothing is unbecoming to you, and you jolly well know it," said Furnival.
She ignored it.
"Just look at their complexions. They oughtn't to be allowed about."
She picked one and laid it against the dead-white hollow of her breast, and curled her neck to look at it there; then she shook her head at it in disapproval, took it away, and held it out an inch from Furnival's face. He recoiled slightly.
"It won't bite," she murmured. "It'll let you stroke it." She stroked it herself, with fingers drawn tenderly, caressingly, over petals smooth and cool as their own skin. "I believe it can feel. I believe it likes it."
Furnival groaned. Straker heard him; so did Mrs. Viveash. She stirred in her seat, causing a spray of Dorothy Perkins to shake as if it indeed felt and shared her terror. Miss Tarrant turned from Furnival and laid her rose on Mrs. Viveash's shoulder, where it did no wrong.
"It's yours," she said; "or a part of you."
Mrs. Viveash looked up at Furnival, and her face flickered for a moment. Furnival did not see her face; he was staring at Miss Tarrant.
"Ah," he cried, "how perfect! You and I'll have to dry up, Straker, unless you can go one better than that."
"I shouldn't dream," said Straker, "of trying to beat Miss Tarrant at her own game."