“True,” said the Lady Amelia. “But to say one is engaged when one is not and to be married without being engaged are the only parlour games open to a jeune fille of any real modesty. ‘Father,’ I said, ‘I am engaged to be married. What do you know about that?’ He was busy writing a letter, but absent-mindedly he stretched a hand out towards a volume of Debrett, saying: ‘What initials, child?’ I thought that so sweet.”
“Personally,” said Lady Pynte, “I adore snobs. They are at least faithful to their principles.”
“Faithful!” cried my Lady Surplice. “Did you say faithful, Cornelia? Is there such a thing as fidelity?”
“Dans un sauvage,” bitterly said M. des Beaux-Aces. He would, said Dwight-Rankin.
“But what is fidelity?” cried my lady. “Your Highness, why do you not amuse us? I ask, what is fidelity? Is this a time for silence?”
“‘Fidelity’ is the title of a new novel,” said a young gentleman who had not spoken before and who was requested not to speak again.
“Fidelity,” bitterly said Dame Warp, “is the only game of which a decent woman—I said a decent woman—never tires. I except, of course, auction bridge.”
“Fidelity would be such fun,” sighed Fay Paradise, “if only one could ever decide whom to be faithful to.”
“Amelia,” cried Lady Surplice. “I hear you were at Martha Putney’s ball last night. What was it like?”
“Lousy, dear,” sighed the Lady Amelia.