“I am prostrated by your beauty, fairest!”

Sir Gregory was eyeing Lavinia’s white slippers through his quizzing glass.

“Jewelled heels, ’pon my soul!” he drawled.

She pirouetted gracefully, her feet flashing as they caught the light.

“Was it not well thought on?” she demanded. “But I must not waste time⁠—the dress! Now, Markham⁠—now Harry⁠—you will see the creation!”

Lovelace sat down on a chair, straddle-wise, his arms over the back, and his chin sunk in his hands. Markham leant against the garde-robe and watched through his glass.