Mrs. Jay, aware that impropriety is the soul of wit, made
observations in tones hardly above a whisper that might well
have tinged the snowy tablecloth with a rosy hue.
Richard Twining bubbled over with quaint absurdities, and
George Road, conscious that he need not exhibit a brilliancy which
was almost a by-word, opened his mouth only to put food into it.
Mrs. Strickland did not talk much, but she had a pleasant gift
for keeping the conversation general; and when there was a
pause she threw in just the right remark to set it going once more.
She was a woman of thirty-seven, rather tall and plump,
without being fat; she was not pretty, but her face was
pleasing, chiefly, perhaps, on account of her kind brown eyes.
Her skin was rather sallow. Her dark hair was elaborately dressed.
She was the only woman of the three whose face was
free of make-up, and by contrast with the others she seemed
simple and unaffected.

The dining-room was in the good taste of the period. It was
very severe. There was a high dado of white wood and a green
paper on which were etchings by Whistler in neat black frames.
The green curtains with their peacock design, hung in straight
lines, and the green carpet, in the pattern of which pale
rabbits frolicked among leafy trees, suggested the influence
of William Morris. There was blue delft on the chimneypiece.
At that time there must have been five hundred dining-rooms in
London decorated in exactly the same manner. It was chaste,
artistic, and dull.

When we left I walked away with Miss Waterford, and the fine
day and her new hat persuaded us to saunter through the Park.