“I wear my suits for years.  Some I’ve had seven years.  I’ve got a frock-coat I bought for my brother Jim’s wedding, ten years ago, and it looks all right—­a little small now, but otherwise ’most as good as new.”

“What a lamb, what a babe, you are, Ruddy!  Like none that ever lived.  Why, no woman wears her gowns two seasons, and some of them rather hate wearing them two times.”

“Then what do they do with them—­after the two times?”

“Well, for a while, perhaps, they keep them to look at and gloat over, if they like them; then, perhaps, they give them away to their poor cousins or their particular friends—­”

“Their particular friends—?”

“Why, every woman has some friends poorer than herself who love her very much, and she is good to them.  Or there’s the Mart—­”

“Wait.  What’s ’the Mart’?”

“The place where ladies can get rid of fine clothes at a wicked discount.”

“And what becomes of them then?”

“They are bought by ladies less fortunate.”

“Ladies who wear them?”

“Why, what else would they do?  Wear them—­of course, dear child.”

Byng made a gesture of disgust.  “Well, I call it sickening.  To me there’s something so personal and intimate about clothes.  I think I could kill any woman that I saw wearing clothes of yours—­of yours.”

She laughed mockingly.  “My beloved, you’ve seen them often enough, but you haven’t known they were mine; that’s all.”

“I didn’t recognize them, because no one could wear your clothes like you.  It would be a caricature.  That’s a fact, Jasmine.”

She reached up and swept his cheek with a kiss.  “What a darling you are, little big man!  Yet you never make very definite remarks about my clothes.”

He put his hands on his hips and looked her up and down approvingly.  “Because I only see a general effect, but I always remember colour.  Tell me, have you ever sold your clothes to the Mart, or whatever the miserable coffin-shop is called?”

“Well, not directly.”

“What do you mean by ’not directly’?”

“Well, I didn’t sell them, but they were sold for me.”  She hesitated, then went on hurriedly.  “Adrian Fellowes knew of a very sad case—­a girl in the opera who had had misfortune, illness, and bad luck; and he suggested it.  He said he didn’t like to ask for a cheque, because we were always giving, but selling my old wardrobe would be a sort of lucky find—­that’s what he called it.”

Byng nodded, with a half-frown, however.  “That was ingenious of Fellowes, and thoughtful, too.  Now, what does a gown cost, one like that you have on?”

“This—­let me see.  Why, fifty pounds, perhaps.  It’s not a ball gown, of course.”

He laughed mockingly.  “Why, ‘of course,’ And what does a ball gown cost—­perhaps?” There was a cynical kind of humour in his eye.

“Anything from fifty to a hundred and fifty—­maybe,” she replied, with a little burst of merriment.