"F. G. Rivers! Of course not! Felicity will do all that sort of thing. She has a talent for celebrities--like papa. But why on earth _mustn't_ I go to supper with just F. G. Rivers?" "Oh, I don't know. You can if you like. _I_ don't care," said Woodville jealously. "I thought he was a wonderfully clever novelist, tremendously successful and celebrated!" "Yes, I know. That's what I meant," Woodville said. "Aren't his books rather weird and uncanny ... and romantic,--all about local colour, and awfully cynical?" "How well you know what to say about things! _Weird!_ Delightful! I dare say that's what Rivers would expect a nice girl to say of his books. He spends half his time being afraid people should think his work is lurid, and the rest in being simply terrified that people should think it's not. He's very clever really, and a delightful companion." "Is he cynical?" she asked. "He's so sceptical, that he believes in everything, but especially hard work, like table-turning, crystal-gazing, and Sandow's exercises.... I was at Oxford with him, you know," Frank added explanatorily. "I see, it's an old affection. Anybody else I'm not to speak to?" "Nonsense, Sylvia; I want you to be charming to every one, of course. I believe in that sort of thing. It's the right atmosphere for a party. Don't think about _me_." "How can I help it?" Her grey eyes were reproachful. Woodville looked into them, then abruptly looked away. "What are you going to wear, Sylvia?" "My white satin, I think. Do you like it? Or don't you?" "No; it makes you look too much like a Gainsborough--or no, more like a Sargent--which is worse. I mean worse for me, of course." "Oh, dear! why am I always _like_ something? Well, what am I to wear, Frank? I've just ordered a sort of fluffy grey chiffon--like a cloud." "Wear that. You're always in the clouds, and I'm always looking up at them.... I hope it has a silver lining?" "Perhaps it has. I don't know yet, it hasn't come home. Felicity's going to wear a sort of Watteau-ish dress, pink and white and blue, you know. Of course, she won't wear any jewels--she never will. You see, Chetwode has such a lot of old ones in his family. She says she's afraid, if she did, the _Perfect Lady_ or _Home Chirps_ might say 'Lady Chetwode as usual appeared in the "Chetwode emeralds"'--or something idiotic of that sort." "How like her! Then just wear your string of pearls." "Mayn't I wear the little turquoise heart that you--didn't give me, the one I bought in the Brompton Road and gave it to myself from you, so that I could honestly say you hadn't?" "Better not, Sylvia. It looks as if it came out of a cracker. And we don't need any symbols and things, do we?" "Very well.... I'm afraid, Frank ... I shall have to go now." Woodville looked hurt. "What? Already! Then why did you waste the precious minutes alone in making epigrams about F. G. Rivers? He's such a good fellow too, I always got on with him at Oxford."