“Like her, madam!” cried Lord Paramour. “I like her enormously. Most girls, I find, are rather tiresome—but your daughter, madam, is most unusual. And she is witty, which is remarkable in a girl. Please don’t deny it—I distinctly heard her say something witty while we were dancing. She said, if I remember aright: ‘The art of dancing is not to dance but to avoid other dancers.’ Now that, madam, is a mot, in fact it is a bon mot. I am very partial to a bon mot, madam. And considering that I had just bumped the back of her head into some ass’s elbow I think it was very apt of her. I was much impressed by your daughter, madam.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Lyon-West, “looks aren’t everything. A woman should be clever as well as beautiful——”
“Exactly,” said Lord Paramour. “Exactly. Or quite.”
“She reads such a lot!” sighed Mrs. Lyon-West.
“Well, well, there’s nothing like reading,” said Lord Paramour. “Personally, I can never find anything to read these days. Lot of septic trash.”
“But you are so fastidious, Lord Paramour!”
“Oh, not at the moment, madam!”
“Well, then, why are you so long getting married?” asked Mrs. Lyon-West with a bright smile.
“Lot of trash,” again sighed Lord Paramour. “Young women very inferior these days, madam. Always, of course, excepting your daughter.”
“Don’t except her. Marry her,” said Mrs. Lyon-West wittily.