She laughed a little, and stroked her fan, a big fan, a big fan of fluffy black feathers.
"That's very jolly," said he.
"What?" said she.
"That thing in your lap."
"My fan?"
"I expect you'd call it a fan."
"For goodness' sake, what would you call it?" cried she.
"I should call it a fan."
She gave another little laugh. "You have a nice instinct for the mot juste," she informed him.
"Oh, no," he disclaimed, modestly. "But I can call a fan a fan, when I think it won't shock the sensibilities of my hearer."