Dodo (a modern Detail in accordion pleating, subject to morbid fits of irrelevant skirt-dancing). Oh, Mr. Deronda, what a silly girl I am! I can't bear that proverb about "Honesty being the best policy." It sounds like a sort of life Insurance.
[Giggles contemporarily. Dorian Gray having taken Juliet to dinner, and not getting on with her very well, is staring with unfeigned horror at Rochester, opposite, who is bullying Jane Eyre to a pitiable extent. Behind him is a screen of gilt Spanish leather, wrought with a rather florid Louis Seize design and encrusted with pearls, moonstones, and large green emeralds.
Dorian (aside, to Young Subaltern, who has come Home. On leave. For Christmas). Who is that dreadful man?
Young Subaltern. Who? Old Rochester? Oh, he's a Plain Hero. From the past. He's all right. How well you're looking! Younger than ever, by Jove! Which is curious. But why that absurd buttonhole?
Dorian (hurt). You never like anything I wear. You Anglo-Indians are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
[Arranges his fringe in an old Dutch-silver mirror on the opposite mantelpiece, framed in curiously-carved ivory Cupids, and studded with precious stones, chiefly opals, sapphires, and chrysoberyls.
Ethel Newcome (to Secretary). Who are those two pretty American girls? They seem to be attracting a great deal of attention. (I am completely forgotten, I notice.) Do their dresses come from Paris?
Secretary. No. I think not, dear Miss Newcome. From Messrs. Howells and James, I fancy.
Richard Feverel (cheerily, across the table to Mr. Pickwick). In tolerance of some dithyrambic inebriety—quiverings of semi-narration—we seem to be entering the circle of a most magnetic pseudo-polarity. Don't we?
Mr. Pickwick (puzzled). Very kind of you to say so, I'm sure. May I have the pleasure of taking wine with you?