“One should bow to it,” she said.
“Idolatry!”
“There! look what nodding does.”
A blanche bacchante with a top-knot of leaves venturesomely approached.
“I’m Amethyst,” she murmured.
“Indeed?”
“Of Fashion. You are Miss Sinquier, I take it, whose costumes for Romeo—Renaissance, and ergo à la mode!—I so long to hear about.”
Miss Sinquier dimpled.
“The frocks,” she said, “some of them, will be simply killing.”
“I want your first.”