The only unoccupied chair was one of the small upright contributions from Brittany, and Turner disposed himself carefully; then finding it more secure than most ancient furniture, hunched down and lit a cigarette. “Do you know what I’ve been wondering?” he continued. “If by any chance you brought over those ancestral costumes of yours? We might all dress up again and improvise a sort of Colonial farce. I rather yearn for my flounces.” Gita smiled up at him without effort; he was one of her favorites. “Too bad. They’re down at the manor.” And then she surprised herself by announcing: “I’ve locked them in their chests for good and all. They’ll never be worn again in my time. You see . . . it would be a pity to cheapen the first impression. Don’t you think so?” “Artistically you’re right, no doubt. But it seems rather a pity—sort of waste. Perhaps that’s rather hypocritical of me. We all enjoyed looking like bloods for once, to say nothing of imagining ourselves handsome. The men, I mean. I think I prefer women in their modern frocks and short hair. But Dr. Pelham, for instance, will never look like that again unless you relent.” To Gita’s annoyance she felt herself blushing, a new and ridiculous habit of hers. There had been a time when she prided herself upon a fine static red and laughed at girls whose color changed with every passing emotion. “I’m sure he doesn’t want to,” she replied tartly. “Surgeons are scientists, you know, and scientists have no use for anything so frivolous as fancy dress. About the most matter-of-fact men in the world, I should think.” “Um. Science requires imagination of a certain sort and surgery is nervous work. The most temperamental man I know is a surgeon.” His glance traveled to the corner behind the piano. “Scientists have even been known to fall in love. I should say Pelham had some use for Miss Pleyden. What do you think?” “Isn’t Polly lovely!”