The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. The pieces fell to the ground in a little white shower. Jolly nose! the bright rubies that garnish thy tip Are dug from the mines of canary; And to keep up their lustre I moisten my lip With hogsheads of claret and sherry. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square.
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