“Ah, the French twist—”
“Or simply marcelled and pomped?”
“I am afraid—”
“Or perhaps the pancake or the coronet?”
“Well,” said the young man, desperately plunging, “the coronet I should say would certainly not be inappropriate. It goes with princesses, duchesses and that sort of thing. Don't you think so, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt?” said Duckworth, hoping to be extricated. That lady, however, gave him no assistance but continued to smile affectionately at the girl beside her. “What style is this that you have now adopted, may I ask?” inquired Mr. Duckworth cautiously.
“Oh, that's a combination of several. It's a creation of Kathleen's which as yet has received no name.”
“Then it should be named at once,” said Duckworth with great emphasis. “May I suggest the Thunderbolt? You see, of course—so stunning.”
“They are coming on,” cried Nora, turning her shoulder in disdain upon the young man. “Look, there's your brother, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. I think he is perfectly splendid.”
“Which is he?” said Mr. Duckworth, acutely interested.
“That tall, fine-looking man on the brown pony.”