Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. She found presently she was out of the dock and confronted with the alternative of being bound over in one surety for the sum of forty pounds— whatever that might mean or a month’s imprisonment. What had happened to it? She had broken it, certainly. You are—horrible. She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life.
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