You have been burning paper, I see. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. What was to happen now? She turned to Roding quickly. The horse-soldiers wheeled round and cleared a path: the foot closed in upon the cart. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. These dinners, from their lavish display of ambiguous hors d’oeuvre to their skimpy ices in dishes of frilled paper, with their Chianti flasks and Parmesan dishes and their polyglot waiters and polyglot clientele, were very funny and bright; and she really liked Ramage, and valued his help and advice.
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