MARCHMONT. [Shaking her head.] Not in the smallest degree.
LADY BASILDON. What martyrs we are, dear Margaret!
MRS. MARCHMONT. [Rising.] And how well it becomes us, Olivia!
[They rise and go towards the music-room. The VICOMTE DE NANJAC, a
young attache known for his neckties and his Anglomania, approaches
with a low bow, and enters into conversation.]
MASON. [Announcing guests from the top of the staircase.] Mr. and
Lady Jane Barford. Lord Caversham.
[Enter LORD CAVERSHAM, an old gentleman of seventy, wearing the
riband and star of the Garter. A fine Whig type. Rather like a
portrait by Lawrence.]
LORD CAVERSHAM. Good evening, Lady Chiltern! Has my good-for-
nothing young son been here?
LADY CHILTERN. [Smiling.] I don't think Lord Goring has arrived
yet.
MABEL CHILTERN. [Coming up to LORD CAVERSHAM.] Why do you call Lord
Goring good-for-nothing?
[MABEL CHILTERN is a perfect example of the English type of
prettiness, the apple-blossom type. She has all the fragrance and
freedom of a flower. There is ripple after ripple of sunlight in her
hair, and the little mouth, with its parted lips, is expectant, like
the mouth of a child. She has the fascinating tyranny of youth, and
the astonishing courage of innocence. To sane people she is not
reminiscent of any work of art. But she is really like a Tanagra
statuette, and would be rather annoyed if she were told so.
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