“Dowdy!” said Staines.  “Why, you stormed the town; you were the great success of the night, and, for all I know, of the season.”  The wretch delivered this with unbecoming indifference.

“It is too bad to mock me, Christie.  Where were your eyes?”

“To the best of my recollection, they were one on each side of my nose.”

“Yes, but some people are eyes and no eyes.”

“I scorn the imputation; try me.”

“Very well.  Then did you see that lady in sky-blue silk, embroidered with flowers, and flounced with white velvet, and the corsage point lace; and oh, such emeralds?”

“I did; a tall, skinny woman, with eyes resembling her jewels in color, though not in brightness.”

“Never mind her eyes; it is her dress I am speaking of.  Exquisite; and what a coiffure!  Well, did you see her in the black velvet, trimmed so deep with Chantilly lace, wave on wave, and her head-dress of crimson flowers, and such a riviere of diamonds; oh, dear! oh, dear!”

“I did, love.  The room was an oven, but her rubicund face and suffocating costume made it seem a furnace.”

“Stuff!  Well, did you see the lady in the corn-colored silk, and poppies in her hair?”

“Of course I did.  Ceres in person.  She made me feel hot, too; but I cooled myself a bit at her pale, sickly face.”

“Never mind their faces; that is not the point.”

“Oh, excuse me; it is always a point with us benighted males, all eyes and no eyes.”

“Well, then, the lady in white, with cherry-velvet bands, and a white tunic looped with crimson, and headdress of white illusion, a la vierge, I think they call it.”

“It was very refreshing; and adapted to that awful atmosphere.  It was the nearest approach to nudity I ever saw, even amongst fashionable people.”

“It was lovely; and then that superb figure in white illusion and gold, with all those narrow flounces over her slip of white silk glacee, and a wreath of white flowers, with gold wheat ears amongst them, in her hair; and oh! oh! oh! her pearls, oriental, and as big as almonds!”

“And oh! oh! oh! her nose! reddish, and as long as a woodcock’s.”

“Noses! noses! stupid!  That is not what strikes you first in a woman dressed like an angel.”

“Well, if you were to run up against that one, as I nearly did, her nose would be the thing that would strike you first.  Nose! it was a rostrum! the spear-head of Goliah.”

“Now, don’t, Christopher.  This is no laughing matter.  Do you mean you were not ashamed of your wife?  I was.”

“No, I was not; you had but one rival; a very young lady, wise before her age; a blonde, with violet eyes.  She was dressed in light mauve-colored silk, without a single flounce, or any other tomfoolery to fritter away the sheen and color of an exquisite material; her sunny hair was another wave of color, wreathed with a thin line of white jessamine flowers closely woven, that scented the air.  This girl was the moon of that assembly, and you were the sun.”