“Why, potions.”
“Ita takes tea luke with a lemon; and it makes her so cross.”
“Disgusting.”
“À la Russe.”
“Is she still away?”
“Yes.... She writes from a toy bungalow, she says, with the sea at the very door and a small shipwreck lying on the beach.”
“What of Paris?”
“I’m Page to him, you said so!”
“With her consent.”
“Oh, Ita hates the stage. She’s only on it of course to make a match ...; she could have been an Irish countess had she pleased, only she said it wasn’t smart enough, and it sounded too Sicilian.”