“I don’t give a damn,” he said, “for any of your doctors.”
“So vexing, though; and apparently Lady Bird has been at death’s door, and poor Peggy Povey too. It seems she got wet on the way to the Races; and really I was sorry for her when I saw her in the paddock; for the oats and the corn, and the wheat and the tares, and the barley and the rye, and all the rest of the reeds and grasses in her pretty Lancret hat, looked like nothing so much as manure.”
“I adore to folly her schoolboy’s moustache!”
“My dear, Age is the one disaster,” Madame Ruiz remarked, raising the rosy dome of her sunshade a degree higher above her head.
They were pacing a walk radiant with trees and flowers as some magician’s garden, that commanded a sweeping prospect of long, livid sands, against a white green sea.
“There would seem to be several new yachts, darling,” Madame Ruiz observed.
“The Duke of Wellclose with his duchess (on their wedding-tour) arrived with the tide.”
“Poor man; I’m told that he only drove to the church after thirty brandies!”
“And the Sea-Thistle, with Lady Violet Valesbridge, and, oh, such a crowd.”