The Duchess of Varna was inspecting a portrait with her back to the door as her hostess entered.
“I see you’re looking at my Murillo!” Madame Wetme began.
“Oh.... Is it o-ri-gi-nal?” the duchess drawled.
“No.”
“I thought not.”
“To judge by the Bankruptcy-sales of late (and it’s curious how many there’ve been ...) it would seem from the indifferent figure he makes, that he is no longer accounted chic,” Madame Wetme observed as she drew towards the duchess a chair.
“I consider the chic to be such a very false religion!...” the duchess said, accepting the seat which was offered her.
“Well, I come of an old Huguenot family myself!”
“——...?”
“Ah my early home.... Now, I hear, it’s nothing but a weed-crowned ruin.”